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“May I…help you?” I ask, a little irritated that he hasn’t spoken yet. “I’m on my way out to meet someone.”
He looks at me now, studying me from top to bottom. Though I feel a little self-conscious in my twelve-dollar repurposed dress—with a massive amount of fabric hanging all the way to the floor—while standing in front of him in a suit I would bet cost more money than I’ve ever carried in my bank account at once, I don’t move or fidget. Instead, I stand tall and wait, meeting his eyes when they finally make it back up.
“Thomas Richards. I’m here to check on my daughter since she sent me an email last night that asked some concerning questions. Then she texted me and asked to use my name to get a meeting with a finance company I have no association with and never plan to.”
My cheeks get warm, because it’s clear from his tone he knows that none of this was for his daughter. “Thank you for that. The questions, the meeting, they were for me.”
“I figured as much,” he says, and I feel the sting of his words even though he didn’t so much as a raise his voice. Jesus, he must be murder in court. “What I want to know iswhy?”
“I need to see someone who…has something of mine. And the only way I could get a meeting to say my piece was to dangle something they may want. You’re a rich man,” I say, getting it out in the open. “And your firm’s name holds a lot of weight. A lot more than mine.”
“Is my daughter in trouble?”
The fact that he asks makes me soften a little, because however put together, this is a man who would drive through traffic, in the middle of the workday, to see if she was okay. “No, she’s not. And neither am I,” I tell him, though he doesn’t ask. “But I need to go and make this meeting, because it’s the only chance I have to fix something.”
Mr. Richards watches me for a long moment, so long I’m about to tell him I have to go again, and then he nods. “I’ll accompany you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
He simply raises a brow. “How far do you think you’ll get when they realize you’re not an associate of mine?” He doesn’t give me time to respond. Instead, he opens the door, waiting for me to walk through before closing it. He watches me lock it, and then takes my elbow and leads me to a very black, very sedate, very expensive-looking Mercedes sedan. He opens the passenger door for me, closing it behind me without so much as a word.
Jesus, the smell of the car is almost as beautiful as the outside, fresh leather and money.
I knew Jordan grew up with money, and she herself drives a Mercedes, but I have to say, this is a different view altogether.
We ride in silence to the office, and I don’t bother asking Mr. Richards how he knows where we’re going. When we arrive, a valet attendant sprints to greet us, one opening Mr. Richards’ door, another opening mine. A trip that might have taken me thirty minutes has taken us barely twenty.
Even more impressive, when the assistant who greets us sees Mr. Richards, we’re seated in a conference room and told that Mr. Shields and his son will be here shortly. Oh boy.
“You have thirty seconds to tell me why I’m sitting here or I walk out.”
His face is in the same passive lines, and I don’t doubt him for a second.
“Ezra Shields, the son, raped me when I was fifteen. There’s a police report documenting it, and a rape kit. I didn’t press charges because the police officer said something that made me realize just how hard it would be to prove—and because…I was ashamed.” I take a breath, trying not to care that his face hasn’t shown me any of his feelings. “A…friend of mine found out recently, and used his fists on Ezra. Now Ezra is pressing charges that could send him to jail at worst, ruin his public reputation at best, and I’m not willing to let that happen.”
“Are you going to intimidate him?”
Mr. Richards’s voice isn’t condescending, but it isn’t flattering, either. “No, I’m going to threaten to leak the story to the press. The information you gave Jordan last night proved that they’ll have a pretty high chance at getting ahold of the initial report. It won’t take someone very long to write a story and ruin the already-unsteady reputation of this asshole.”
We don’t have time to talk anymore, because the door to the conference room opens and two men walk in. I don’t make eye contact, giving myself a moment to steady my nerves. When I look up, he’s there, and this could be five years ago for all he’s changed.
His hair is different, his face a little more adult, but the rest of him, the look in his eyes, the careless arrogance that he carries—it’s all there, until Mr. Richards tactfully clears his throat and brings me to my feet. When Ezra’s eyes light on me, he pauses, and then he steps back, one step, and another, before gaining his composure. His own father looks at him, disgust evident, and then looks back at us.
“Mr. Richards. Pleasure.” The father holds out his hand, and Jordan’s dad hesitates just enough to be insulting before taking it.
“It’s not a pleasure for us. We’re not here to talk business,” he says, cutting right to the point. “We’re here to give you and your son a chance to make a deal before we take our story to the police and then the press.”
Mr. Shields is confused, but he masks it well. “I don’t understand. Who is this?” He motions to me.
“This is my client—a dear friend of my daughter’s, who has suffered physical and emotional trauma at the hand of your son. There’s documentation,” he says before either can object. “And a police report, so before you walk out, know that I did not interrupt my work day and drive up here to bluff.”
I am like a statue, watching the two nearly identical men across from me while their emotions play out. Mr. Shields’s face shows anger, rejection, and then, finally, a little bit of defeat. Ezra’s is straight shock and annoyance that turns to fear when his father turns on him.
They don’t say anything, but the look is clear:How did you let this happen?
He turns back before Ezra can shake his head. “You’re not a criminal lawyer, Richards,” he says, losing all pretense of friendliness. “And unless you’ve become an ambulance chaser looking for a quick buck, I’m not sure why you’re here.”
Maybe it’s because he has a daughter, or because that daughter asked him questions that got him thinking, or maybe it’s just because he did waste his workday and Thomas Richards isn’t one to waste an opportunity to exert his authority, but the look he gives is now so feral I’m a little terrified. “I’m not here for money, but don’t bet I won’t take you for everything this firm is worth if you test me.”
