Page 18 of Miss Manage

“Really? Wait. So you have a woman who is in charge of you?”

Her sudden spark of enthusiasm made me grin. “She is the acting CEO, and yes, I report to her.”

“Wow. Do you think I could talk to her?”

“What? Why?”

“For my paper. I want to interview professional women about the struggles they’ve faced getting to where they are on the corporate ladder.”

“You could interview Dominic’s girlfriend, Kelsey. She’s a forensic accountant, or your cousin is in real estate.”

“They’re both great, but I want someone who’s climbed the ladder to the very top. Someone who runs a whole company.”

The excitement in her voice was the most positive emotion I’d heard from her in months. I hated to dampen it but asking Charlotte for a personal favor? Too soon. Too complicated. “We haven’t known each other long.”

“The paper isn’t due until the end of the month. There’s time.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Maybe by then Samantha would have found someone else.

“Thanks, Dad. I’ve gotta go finish my homework, but I’ll see you Friday.”

“See you then. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I was about to hang up when another voice came on the line. A voice like nails on a chalkboard.

“Gabriel, Samantha would rather spend time with her friends this weekend than with you. Can’t you learn to respect what’s best for her?”

My grip on the phone tightened. Tanya. Always ready with the dagger and using it ruthlessly to try convincing me I shouldn’t spend time with my daughter.

“If that’s true, I want to hear it from her. Put her back on.”

Her laugh was brittle, sharp. “She’s busy. And I’m not about to drag her into this to satisfy your ego⁠—”

“You know what? Don’t put her back on.” My voice dropped, clipped. Controlled, though every muscle in me burned to lash out. I wouldn’t put my daughter in the middle of this battle that could never be won. “I’ll be there Friday to pick her up for my weekend. As per the custody agreement.”

Silence stretched, heavy. My jaw ached from how hard I clenched it. I knew the best way to deal with Tanya was the gray rock method where I didn’t react. But she knew just where to push the buttons. Like last weekend when we’d agreed I’d get Samantha for a few hours on her birthday. When I showed up, Tanya had somehow forgotten, taking her out of town. I was sick of the undermining.

“Maybe we should take it back to the judge,” she threatened, her tone sugar-sweet and poisonous all at once. “Let’s see who Samantha really wants to spend her time with.”

My stomach tightened. “This isn’t about weekends or plans, Tanya.” I forced calm into my tone despite my fists clenching. “It’s about you being terrified she’ll have a good relationship with her father.”

I hated myself for giving her the satisfaction of hearing my anger.

She struck back without missing a beat. “That’s rich, coming from a part-time dad she barely knows. Todd is her father figure and much better at it.”

The mention of her stepfather was triggering, and she knew it. “Yeah, but how much longer will he be in the picture?” It was a low blow, and one I wasn’t exactly proud of. Frankly, we’d all be better off if Tanya found love and stability in a partner, and Rick didn’t seem like a bad guy even if he was husband number three, and I had my doubts they’d go the distance.

“Goodbye,” I muttered, hanging up before we traded any more damaging statements. My temples throbbed. I’d escaped the marriage, but I’d never escape having her in my life as my daughter’s mother.

What I needed now wasn’t reflection. It was a drink. A strong one.

I lost my tie, rolled up my sleeves, and headed out. The streets of London hummed with the late-night crowd, black cab taxis darting past in streaks of light. A few blocks from the hotel sat my favorite refuge: a Scotch bar tucked just off St. James’s Street, down a narrow lane you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it.

The type of place old bankers and barristers favored, with heavy oak doors which muted the roar of the city outside. Inside, the atmosphere was hushed and refined with deep leather chairs, brass lamps, and shelves stacked floor to ceiling with single malts from the Highlands to Islay. The air carried the faint scent of cigar smoke though no one had lit one in years. The low murmur of conversation blended with the occasional clink of expensive crystal.

I stepped inside, already anticipating the bite of an aged Scotch on my tongue, only to stop dead in my tracks.

Because there, perched elegantly on a leather stool, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, martini in hand, was the one woman I hadn’t expected to see here, of all places.

Charlotte.