Michael nods once, his chin dipping to his chest.
“Why am I even in this equation? You all work in the business, and I don’t. I don’t want or need blood money!” Her gaze darts around the room.
“Monica, enough. Don’t bring hysteria into a boardroom, please!”
“Condescending much? Is my estrogen offensive to you? If so, sign mine over to Mason. I don’t want or need it, and I don’t work in a capacity to warrant it either. I’m independent of this shit-show, or so I thought.”
“I said that’s enough!” Michael’s fist slams down onto thetable with enough force to vibrate the pitcher of water and the half-full tumblers.
My ire continues to roil “You piece of shit. This has nothing to do with the requested reports. Is this your power move, testing the waters until he kicks, then you wipe me out entirely? So you can play in the dirt with your favorite and flaunt your mistresses? You are an abomination.”
“Shut your mouth and sit down, son.” I’m regarded with the value of a gnat.
“Don’t youeverfucking call me that!”
The last, the very last place I want to spend the joy of Christmas day is with a family of sanctimonious vultures parading as philanthropists. They don’t care about their own family, let alone the lowly dirge of society considered not worthy. If there is an option to eat the organic, nutrient-dense, boiled meat and greens in the kitchen with the staff, I’ll be taking that option.
“Remember, Mas, save your energy. It’s Christmas. Don’t pull the pin on the grenade until you’re ready to lob it next week. It will be more effective as a one time, grand flash, not a drip-fed soap opera that affords them time to recalibrate.”
Trystan sounds like a warmongering general, instead of a back seat passenger with us as we head to Montauk. The wind whips up a foam of angry, rolling waves to batter the spectacular shoreline. Of all the places to spend the day, they picked one of the furthest properties from my parents’ home outside of Trenton. On a cloudless day it would take over three and a half hours to make the commute. Today is neither good nor clear, and the idea of a helicopter was shut down when the weather closed in. Mason hates helicopters and refuses to fly in them anyway. It’s one of the Mercer mega mansions today, until we can stop by my parents’ house tomorrow. I didn’t want to bring it up after the last few days, but when Trystan did and Mason agreed, relief filled me knowing I can at least rinse thesour taste of today from my mouth with the warm embrace of my loving family tomorrow.
The high neckline of my dress itches, and Mason frowns when he notices me fidgeting. Since the Mercer Group bombshell, he’s been savage and almost rough, bordering on possessive during our recent sexual encounters. He’s bitten, nipped, or sucked deep purple hickeys over every inch of my breasts, decolletage and shoulders. The sleek Vera Wang gown is gorgeous without a doubt; if I didn’t need the coverage of the high neck and long sleeves, I would have preferred something more understated and less restrictive. He and Trystan decided not to poke any bears today, to save the real mic drop moment for Magnus’s retirement meeting just over a week away. Putting all the pieces together for that moment to hit just right, however, requires long hours of research, emails, and phone corroborations. At Mason’s insistence, we have a trusted section of his print media fact-checking team alongside us to help expedite the watertight evidence he needs. Add in the New Year’s Eve gala and our research time is finite and precious.
“Stop squirming.” Mason flips up the end of his tie while staring out the tinted, reinforced limousine windows.
“I would have been more comfortable in something else.”
“I’m more comfortable in something else. Namely you. But as we are en route to Montauk with Trystan opposite, here we fucking are. If you wriggle again, I will take you over my knee.”
His mood has improved from forty-eight hours ago. He outlined a plan and filled us in on enough details to pursue the further research required, but no more. He wanted to spare us having to sit through it twice. I can’t decide whether I respect or loathe him for that. I worry we are driving straight into an ambush. Me in a Vera Wang dress feels like a prettier, feminine version of a scuba suit, and the boys in the almost matching ties I bought them for Christmas. Mason in blue, Trystan in red.The color of love and passion, he proclaimed until he studied the graphic further and almost bent over in laughter. The honking, wheezing laughter with periods of silence between the hysteria. Mason smiled, kissed me on the temple, and went about tying his double Windsor knot. The same knot he was taught to perfect at just four years of age. As I watched his fingers move, fold and squeeze with precision, my mind filled with thoughts of his upbringing in that environment; what looked from the outside to be a life of grand luxury was a curated illusion meant to falsify what was going on inside those walls. By the time the limousine pulls to a graceful stop in the forecourt of another austere, soulless home, my stomach lurches with nerves and the threat of rising bile.
“Good day, Ms. Broe. Merry Christmas. Madam Alice has requested you join her in the conservatory,” the butler drawls, looking deflated and overworked. The man must be as old as Magnus. Is he any chance of retiring soon?
“Just Ms. Broe?” Mason questions. “Why not all of us?”
“Your mother was very explicit with her instructions, sir.”
“Oh, I bet she was.” He purses his lips and nods.
I meet Trystan’s worried gaze as he twists his lips together, annoyed.
“I’ll be fine. There’s a house full of witnesses. You worry too much.”
Mason shifts from foot to foot, hesitant to let me go, until a throat clearing from beside him snaps him free of his reluctance.
“Ten minutes. Any longer and I’ll send in a S.W.A.T team.”
In their similar suits and almost matching ties, they saunter off in the opposite direction. How the fuck can both homes have a conservatory? I can’t keep a Ficus alive.
“This way, ma’am.” I follow the butler through to the back of the house, away from the water. Here, a similar set of doors opens to a sunken conservatory with painted beams and what must be over two hundred panes of glass, all fitting together like origami. The light in here is diffused perfection, and I consider asking if she’d let me sketch in here, until the woman herself appears and I know the answer will be a big, fat no! She still has that pinched, hairless cat appearance: a tight mouth in the center of flawless skin, eyes that look a little hollowed but still defy her age, and a forehead so smooth it looks like the marble floor I’ve just walked on. Alice Mercer doesn’t have a resting bitch face. She has taken things to a higher level of elite mastery. She portrays a concrete cunt countenance. I’m so fucked.
“Ms. Broe, please do come in.” The fine hairs on the back of my neck prickles at her words.
Her voice draws me in like a sailor to a rocky outcrop. Lifting the hem of the dress, I move forward with tentative steps, thankful this atrium is warmed. Alice Mercer gestures toward a table and three chairs. I wonder who is joining us until she pulls her own chair out to sit and instructs me to do the same. The setting is in a cleared space surrounded by exotic plants but not overpowering. There is room to admire the view outside and her love and talent for tending to such exotic species, who all boast an abundance of glossy leaves. Some hang in potted baskets, bracts of spider-like yellow flowers cascading over the top like a golden waterfall.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” she begins. It’s not like I had a choice.
“At least this time I can say I was invited. Or summoned.” I keep my tone jovial and light to cover the fact that I’m shitting myself. Her coy grin looks almost painful. Her eyelids shutter closed with a robotic action.
