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“My pleasure.”
She clears her throat, and my stomach tightens. “I have to say I am so sorry that you won’t be joining us, but your father explained the situation and I wanted to thank you personally for the donation. With that, I’ll be able to take on ten new charity homes.”
What? I don’t understand. She keeps talking.
“I do hope you’ll consult with us, though. Your low-income plans are exactly what we’re looking for here.”
There’s a sinking feeling in my gut and tears spring to my eyes. I do my best to keep them out of my voice. “Of course, I’d be happy to.”
My father called her.
My father bought her off and she was going to give me the job. The job I’ve been working my ass off for and dreaming about for half my life.
A fury nothing like I’ve ever known fills me, followed by a crushing sadness. Because that money my father donated? The Foundation needs that money. Those families need that money, need the houses those funds will build. Rebecca continues with her thankful speech, and I don’t know how much more I can listen to it, when I know she’s thanking me for my father’s betrayal.
“Just let me know if you need anything, Vera.”
An idea forms, the very least I can do with this situation. “Actually, I have a request.”
“Name it,” she says.
“You have a contractor—James London?”
“Oh yes!” Her voice lights up. “We love James.”
“He’s a good friend, and I know he does good work. The homes you choose to build with the donation—schedule permitting, of course—would you consider giving those contracts to him?”
She laughs, “That seems simple enough. We’re always happy to have him on board.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I hope that we’ll be speaking soon!” And she signs off.
I sit on my bed, utterly unable to move. I’m at war with myself, wanting to destroy something and at the same time wanting to crawl into my bed and hide for days. Then a resolve forms. No. No hiding.
I pull on clothes, not bothering with makeup. I don’t have time for it. My anger won’t wait for it. I go across the house to my father’s office and throw open the door. I push it so hard I hear it slam against the wall with a very satisfying crack. My father is at his drafting table and I’m gratified by seeing his pen snag across the paper in his surprise.
“How much did it cost you?” I ask.
He finds his blotter and starts to work on the mistake I just made him make. “What are you talking about?” He isn’t even looking at me.
My voice is loud and I hear it echo as I shout—I don’t care, let everyone hear— “Bullshit! You know exactly what I’m talking about. The Harrison Foundation. How much did it take you to buy them off? How much did you lose to make sure they were fine with you withdrawing me from the position?”
He looks up mildly. “Two million. I figured you would appreciate it.”
“Appreciate it?” I seethe. “Why would I appreciate you sabotaging my career? I’ve dreamed of doing this kind of work since…” I trail off as my voice breaks with emotion.
He just rolls his eyes. My father, the great Timothy Caldwell, rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Vera. You know you’re blowing this entirely out of proportion.”
I take a deep breath, desperately trying to keep from screaming at him. “I’m not being dramatic. You bought someone off—”
“I made a donation,” he interjects.
“You bought someone off to force me to work for you.”
He looks at me for a moment. “I suppose you can put it like that, if you insist. Though I’m doing it for your own good.”
“If you were going to do this, going to force my hand,” my fingers squeeze into fists and I desperately want to hit something, “then why make that deal with me at all? What was the point of the past three months of me looking for a job?”
The mistake on his plan fixed, my father puts his drafting tools away and fully turns to face me. “I wanted you to see just how hard it would be for you if you were on your own. I wanted you to appreciate the fact that I am handing you a career and a legacy on a platter. Most people would be grateful for the opportunity, Vera. I’ve worked hard to make sure you have a place in my company, and so you will accept it with grace. Understand me: this tantrum you’re throwing will be the last time you will be allowed to behave this way.”
“Tantrum,” I say, a sudden and deadly cold flowing through my body. “Confronting you about this thing you did and standing up for myself is not a tantrum.”
We stare at each other, and everything clicks with a horrifying certainty. Every rejection that I’ve received from my interviews referenced my father; my no-longer-future employers keep asking me to give him their best. I thought it was because he was famous. I’m realizing it’s because he paid them off.
Every single interview I’ve had has been sabotaged by him.
“You paid all of them off,” I say, my voice taut.
He nods, as if there’s nothing wrong with it. “I consider it an investment in the future of my company. We both know that your place is with me at the firm.”
My mouth is dry. “Did you ever mean for me to find out?”
“Does it matter?” He shrugs. “It’s the same result. Don’t worry, I made a point of giving the money to the charitable divisions of all the companies. I figured that if you found out, the money would help you let go and get this charity kick out of your system.”
“This charity kick is what I want to do. Not that you’ve cared to listen to that for the past four years I was working on my degree.”
“And when you’re my age and well established, if you still feel that burning need,” he scoffs, “feel free. It will be your company by then. For now, you’re twenty-two, my daughter, you live in my house, I pai
d for your education, and you’re going to work for me.”
I grit my teeth. “You can’t make me do this. You can’t force me.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” I say, straightening. “There are other options. Other places I can go.”
My father leans back in his chair with an infuriating smile. “Where, exactly, would you go? To whatever slum your poor boyfriend lives in?” My mouth falls open and he grimaces. “You thought I didn’t know that you’ve been slumming it with one of the caretakers? Letting him fuck you all over our property? You can be sure he’ll never work for us again.”
So this is speechlessness. My father doesn’t stop speaking.
“And what would you do instead?” he asks. “The entire architecture community knows that I want you to work for me. No one will want to get on my bad side by hiring you now, and you’re trained for nothing else. You start on Monday. See you at nine sharp.”
He gets up from behind his desk and comes around it, stopping in front of me. “I suggest you take this weekend to think very carefully about your future, Vera. Because if you’re not in my office on Monday morning, don’t bother coming back to this house.”
I gape at him, unable to combat the fact that he’s ignoring everything but his own logic. He’s going to disown me if I disobey. I can’t believe this is happening. I turn and storm out of the office, brushing past my mother who is watching from the door. There’s a look of shock on her face, and I hear her voice mixing with my father’s as I sprint down the stairs.
I go outside, unable to be in the house for a single second longer. I go to my garden, my refuge, and I scream at the top of my lungs. It feels so good that I do it again, louder, and then I collapse onto the bench.
I’ve always used this garden as a refuge, as a safe haven. There is no other place that I would even think to go. Except for the fact that it doesn’t feel the same, and this isn’t where I want to be—the shock that I want to be with James comes just as strongly as the desire to be in his arms. I don’t question it. I can’t. Instead I run out of the garden and toward the back of the property. He was working on the hedges, I remember. There are so many that’s probably what he’s still doing.
