Page 10 of Backlash

“Bill?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Incidentals and residence fees are billed to the account on file,” he explains. “It’s part of the arrangement.”

“Of course.” That makes sense, although I can’t believe my father kept this place all these years, paying fees on a penthouse we never used. No wonder our family is broke. “Where is that bill sent?”

The last thing I need is for Malcolm to know my every move, even if it’s unlikely to be more exciting than knowing I ordered a club sandwich two days in a row.

“I’ll look into that,” he promises. “I do hope everything is up to your standards. It’s been a while since we had a MacLaine in house.”

“I know.”

“Your father was a valued member here and we miss him terribly.”

“My father?” I smile. “You must not have known him very well.”

“Before his illness, he was here weekly. He was a demanding man but a generous one.”

He didn’t know my father at all.

Or maybe he knew him better than I did. Because I had no idea my father ever came to this suite at the Eaton. I only knew about it because of the slumber party.

“You’re saying my father came here often?”

“Weekly,” Geoff confirms. I see the recognition dawn on his face as this information sinks into me. He shouldn’t have said a thing. The Eaton is a luxury hotel—the kind that turns a blind eye to the vices of their wealthy patrons. Those residence fees he spoke of—I’m guessing they have a different purpose: hush money. Tip staff well enough and they’ll keep your secrets. Buy a penthouse, come and go as you please.

“Oh,” I feign idiocy. “The Nashville apartment! The family has so much real estate. I didn’t realize he was talking about this place. He did come here and stay when he had late meetings at the office. I haven’t been here since I was a kid. I just thought of it as a hotel.”

Geoff’s shoulders relax as though I’ve lifted a weight from them. He probably thought he was about to lose his job, and then who would arrange romantic evenings for Tennessee’s most spoiled mistresses?

“My brother comes here a lot, doesn’t he?” I ask, realizing that I might have overlooked a critical component of this plan. Malcolm has a weekly date he likes to keep quiet, too. What if…? I don’t want to think about my brother and his girlfriends being here.

“If he does, he doesn’t use the suite. It was your father’s,” Geoff assures me, bypassing the question of Malcolm’s patronage while still getting to the heart of the issue. I have to give it to him. He’s smooth.

“And now it’s mine,” I murmur. “The decor?”

“We can arrange for it to be redone as you like. I can put you in touch with our in-house interior designer.”

“Interesting.”

I mean it. I need some place to call my own.

“If there’s anything else…” Geoff trails away.

“Yes, can you call that designer? I just took a job in the city.” I mentally cross my fingers that I can smooth things over with Trish. “I wasn’t sure if it would be a good fit, but I think maybe I’m home.”

“Then let me be the first to say welcome back, Ms. MacLaine.”

Once Geoff leaves me in my new place, I find the bedroom, throw myself on the mattress, and scream into a pillow until my throat is raw. It beats crying. I once swore I would never cry over Sterling Ford again. It’s one of those promises you make out of desperation, and not because you think you can keep it.

But today?

Today, I don’t want to cry. Today, I want to be angry, because anger fuels. Crying saps. I need energy to steer this wreck of a life toward a stable future. When I’m done screaming, I order a fucking club sandwich and a bottle of champagne. I’m going to celebrate this moment.

I have a home.

I have a job.

I have a choice.