Page 49 of Break My Rules
I shake my head. “Turned out to be a dead-end,” I reply, thinking of the Blackthorn Society party. I’d gone in with such high hopes, but it had turned out just to be a bunch of rich, privileged people drinking and chanting Latin mottos together.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Phillip gives me a rueful smile. “I know you wanted to find out more about Wren’s time at Oxford, but I don’t know… Sometimes it’s better to just move on. Keep the happy memories alive and let the rest of it go.”
“Maybe,” I echo, even though I don’t believe it for a second.
Let go of what happened to Wren? I wouldn’t even know how.
The doors slide shut, and I turn my attention back to the office. I’m just wondering who to ask about locating Imogen, when the woman herself breezes down the hallway, dressed impeccably in navy silk pants and a little cashmere cardigan, her blonde hair in a neat French braid. “So sorry,” she exclaims, greeting me with a kiss on the cheek. “I got tied up over the music before I realized I’d stranded you downstairs with the Gestapo.”
“It’s fine,” I smile, and hold up the lunch bags. “I come bearing carbs.”
“Angel. So what brings you over?” Imogen asks, as she leads us down a hallway. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, of course. I’ve been drowning in centerpieces all morning, I could use the break.”
“And Gino’s finestanti-pasti,” I joke. “I was just in the neighborhood, and, well, to tell the truth, I’ve been curious about this place,” I say, looking around as we go. “Saint’s been tied up with meetings all week.”
“Everybody’s slammed,” Imogen nods. “Lionel Ambrose decided to hold a last-minute campaign event here. Of course, nobody’s calling it a campaign event,” she adds, rolling her eyes, “That would be unseemly. Officially, it’s a celebration of British business, with Ashford Pharma as the shining example of innovation. Somehow, I got roped in to plan the thing,” she adds, throwing open the doors of a massive conference room. “And you can see how well that’s going.”
I blink. The room looks like a hurricane just touched down, crammed full of lavish centerpieces, event furniture, and boxes of linens and glassware. “Wow,” I manage. “And the event is tomorrow, you said?”
Imogen grins. “Don’t worry, I have a team of well-trained minions assisting me, and there’s a method to my madness,” she reassures me, cleaning off a table and pulling up two chairs for us. “By Friday night, this whole floor will be a tasteful testament to Ashford’s world-beating results. Or whatever the latest investment prospectus says.”
I set out the food, and we dig in. “Saint doesn’t talk much about the business,” I confide, looking around. “But they mainly develop new drugs, don’t they?”
Imogen nods, picking at her salad. “Technically, Ashford has feelers in everything,” she explains. “Plastics, beauty products, baby food, even a random chocolate factory in Belgium.”
“Really?”
She grins. “Saint’s grandfather fell in love with a buxom chocolatier in the fifties, I think it was, set her up with her own little empire out there when the affair ended. Now the family sends out the best Christmas samplers every year. But yes,” she adds, “pharmaceuticals are the core business. It’s a billion-pound industry, and everyone’s racing for the next big wonder-drug.”
“Like Alzheimer’s,” I reply without thinking.
Imogen blinks, surprised. “You know about that?”
I remember too late that Phillip said the clinical trials were top-secret. “My sister was working on the research,” I explain quickly. “Why, how do you know?”
Imogen glances around. “It’s kind of an open secret around here,” she says, but she still drops her voice, so the people passing outside the open door can’t hear. “My parents liquidated the rest of their stock portfolio to buy more Ashford shares,” she confides. “And all their friends have done the same. See, the minute Ashford announces the trial results for the Alzheimer’s drug, the company value is going to skyrocket.”
“Isn’t that… I don’t know, insider trading?” I ask, frowning.
Imogen laughs. “Maybe, but everyone does it. We scratch your back, you scratch ours… That’s why they’re doing this event here,” she adds. “Ashford rolls out the red carpet for Lionel Ambrose’s campaign and helps him win the leadership election. Then, once he’s Prime Minister, he can push for the new drugs to be available on the NHS. Massive government orders, which will send the Ashford shares even higher. It’s all connected.”
It's all corrupt, sounds like to me, but I don’t say anything. Billion-pound industry, national political campaigns… It’s all way over my head, and a million miles from my life.
“It sounds like the families are close,” I say instead, thinking of Hugh.
Imogen nods. “Saint’s father and Lionel go way back. Cyrus Lancaster, too. He’s one of Lionel’s biggest donors, and I think he’s invested in Ashford, too. They’ve all risen to the top together.”
And all the families have a lot to lose.
I swallow, again reminded of the stakes at play here. Whether it’s Max or Hugh who is behind Wren’s attack—or both of them—they’re both just as powerful and untouchable.
There’s a knock on the door, and a harried assistant sticks her head in. “Miss Alcott—I mean, Imogen? There’s a truck in the delivery bay with a thousand black balloons.”
“Black?” Imogen is on her feet immediately. “No, no, I said red, silver, and white. Ashford colors.”
“I’m sorry,” the girl looks helpless. Imogen turns to me with a sigh.
“I really have to—”