Page 14 of Bombshell

I’m torn in two directions whenever we talk. I want him to relax and just be with me, free from all the crap in his head, but I can’t relax myself, because I have to vet everything I say through a filter. No talk of my family or money or me moving out. We even got into a heated argument over a book.

It’s exhausting.

The only reprieve seems to be an early spring, by Tennessee standards. By the first of March, it feels like May. I can’t see it as anything other than a gift as the whole world longs for change as much as I do. The early warm front brings surprises with it. Magnolias are in full bloom, nearly two months early, in every garden, window box and flower bed at Valmont. The air, still cool and crisp in the mornings, seems to warm up just to carry their scent. It makes me think of Mom. It makes me wish she was here to help me make sense of Sterling and life and everything. If she were still around, would she have been able to keep my father from interfering in our relationship? Probably not. But, at least, she might have tempered it.

And every time I let myself wonder, I get angry. Because she isn’t here. Because it’s stupid to want what’s gone. Because I have to make my days diamonds, whether anyone helps me do it or not.

I have managed to avoid my father, at least. We haven’t had a single conversation since the wedding. But one day, as I come out of my Intro to Creative Writing class, I find his Maybach parked outside Stanton Hall.

One of our family’s security staff is standing by the rear door, and when he sees me he calls loudly, “Miss MacLaine? Your father would like a word.”

He opens the door to the Maybach, its rear seat nearly the size of a limo’s, and there’s my father, looking dead ahead, his jaw set with anger.

All the other students milling around stop in their tracks to look at me—some entitled bitch who’s father calls her to business meetings. All I want is to run the opposite direction. Take every class on campus, then do all the homework, before reading every book in the library. Anything but get in the car.

And why shouldn’t I?

Because he pays my tuition. There’s been no way around it. No financial aid for someone claimed on her father’s tax return. Someone who’s father makes billions.

And I need that tuition money, because, if I ever want to be free of him, I have to finish school and make the kind of money that means I’ll never need him again.

But mostly, because this moment was inevitable.

So, I get in.

It takes a second for my father to acknowledge me as he finishes something on his phone, and when he does, it’s to let out a long sigh. “Adair, there’s a matter we need to discuss.”

“And now’s the time?” I ask flatly. It’s not like he’s ever needed to talk to me before. “If this is about Sterling, there’s nothing to talk about.”

“You made that very clear the night of your brother’s wedding. And I did my best to stay out of it—”

“Bullshit.” He’s probably just been too busy with things that actually matter to him to bother tracking me down for round two.

“—since then,” he continues, despite my outburst. “But something has arisen that requires that to change.” He lifts the top of the armrest centered between us, and reaches inside, withdrawing a large manilla envelope.

“If you changed your mind, the least you could do is come out and say it,” I snap, trying to ignore the appearance of the envelope, which fills me with cold dread. “You don’t need to be dramatic.”

“I received an email three days ago. The contents of that message are in the envelope,” he says, handing it to me. “You should prepare yourself.”

For what?

My fingers tremble as I unwind the figure-eight string closing the end of the envelope. Inside, there is a small tablet computer and a single, folded piece of paper. The message on the paper is a print-out of an email:

To: Angus MacLaine ([email protected])

From: ([email protected])

Please view the attached video.

To avoid disclosure of its contents, send a check for $1,000,00,000 to the following address:

I stop reading as soon as I see Queens, NY. What am I reading? My head snaps toward my father, and the muscles near the corner of his jaw are as tight as cables. There’s none of his usual perverse joy at my discomfort, if anything, he seems uncomfortable himself.

“The video has been muted,” he says. “You should know that I did not watch it in its entirety, Adair.”

He’s beginning to scare me.

I tap the power button on the tablet, and the screen blinks to life, a media player already loaded. An alarm somewhere in my brain tells me I’m suffocating, and I realize I haven’t even been breathing. I take a second to steady myself before pressing play.