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I glance down at the ring on my finger. “Because I need to atone for what I’ve done.”
“How so?”
“People got hurt because of us. People are still getting hurt.”
“This is about a breakup?”
“Not exactly.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he slams his computer shut and shoves it into his satchel before standing.
“Ryan, I’m sorry, but I can’t—”
He snatches his jacket and pulls it on. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Ryan—”
I move to go after him when my phone buzzes in my pocket, a local area code, and a number I don’t recognize.
“Cecelia Horner.”
“Do you think this is fucking funny?”
I can’t help my smile. “Good morning, Tobias. I’m looking forward to working together.”
“This isn’t happening. I’ve given in to all your other demands.”
“All except one. The only one that matters.”
“You do realize you’re fucking with the wrong man.” Not a question.
“You don’t think I know who you are or what you’re capable of?” I hiss walking to the corner of the lobby where I’m not heard and look up at the surveillance camera, knowing his eyes are on me.
“Ezekiel Tobias King, Born Ezekiel Tobias Baran, July 30th nineteen eighty-four, thirty-six-years old, son of Celine Moreau, and adopted son of Guillaume Beau King. A US transplant at age six, you were orphaned at age eleven along with one brother, Jean Dominic King, who died at age twenty-six, no autopsy.” I swallow away the ache with every word.
“You went to France at age sixteen to attend IPESUP prep school to ensure your acceptance to the prestigious HEC Paris to earn your business degree. You spent your time wisely recruiting and vetting old relatives to build an alliance for your cause. After graduating, you started your company, Exodus Inc and went public with it four years ago. The net worth as of the close of business yesterday is sitting just below two billion dollars. Just after you formed your company, you began to search for your last living and close relative, your birth father, Abijah Baran, a French Hebrew and member of Parti Radical until he was diagnosed with schizophrenia at age twenty-eight. Six years ago, you found him. Shortly after, you had him committed to a mental institution, Centre Hospitalier Sainte-Anne, in the 14th arrondissement in Paris, where you visit him annually. A fact you’ve hidden from everyone in your life. His association with certain extremists and his mental disease no doubt one of the reasons why you never married and have no living heirs, and a large part of the reason for your secrecy. That and the fact that the only thing you have ever truly fucking cared about in this life is your immediate family, your personal vendetta against Roman Horner, your ambitious agenda, and getting your goddamn way.” I lift my chin to the camera. “Know your opponent, Tobias. You’re move, King.”
I hang up and walk outside to spot Ryan halfway down the square and decide to give him space because I can’t give him answers. I know how he feels, I’m fighting tooth and nail to get my own.
“Cecelia, is that you?” Crossing Main Street, I turn to see Melinda racing toward me, her eyes wide.
“Hey, Melinda, how are you?”
“As I live and breathe, girl, you only get more beautiful, look at you,” she says as she grips me to her in a hug. I hug her back just as tightly before she pulls away. “You’re just gorgeous. All grown up.”
“Thank you, you look great.”
“That’s because I just spent a hundred dollars on my hair.” She runs her hand through it. “And don’t BS me. You just left without a word. I was so worried about you. And when you didn’t come back for your father’s—” She reads my expression and falters.
“I’m sorry, I had some personal things come up and just took off.”
“Are you staying long?”
“For a little while. Not long.”
She lights up. “Well, we have a wedding in the family coming up. You remember my little niece, Cassie? She’s getting married! Can you believe she’s so grown up? Seems like just yesterday I was telling you about her baptism.” As always, she easily sorts through her phone and lifts a picture.
“She’s beautiful.”
