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“…back to Susan at JFK Airport, where Eliza Seymour has just landed and…” I stop listening at that, watching as the screen pans to a reporter standing in one of the JFK arrival areas. Behind her a bunch of reporters and cameramen crowd together, waiting for the woman I once called my daughter.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath. “Is she coming back to the States?”
“Seems like it,” Cheryl nods without taking her eyes off the screen. “Your daughter’s back. Her trust fund has just kicked in, and she came back to the states to sit down on the Seymour throne, it seems.”
Eliza Seymour, in charge of the whole Seymour fortune. Now that’s interesting.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Cheryl whispers, and I look up at her and smile.
“You bet I am,” I merely say, the contour of a plan taking shape in my mind.
Chapter Five
Derek
Columbus Circle is always a madhouse. It’s in the middle of fucking Manhattan, so what else do you expect? People rushing toward retail and food—wives, daughters, children, old, young—it doesn’t fucking matter. All walks of life converge here … and sometimes even the residential units of the Time Warner Building.
The residential units are where I’m headed—those two tall towers of steel and glass. I’m heading to the 72nd floor, to be exact.
Normally, I fucking love the city. Drop me into the center of it all any day. The energy. The hustle. It breathes life into my fucking veins … but today? I can hardly stomach being here.
Eliza’s been in New York City for three days now, and every one of those days I’ve woken up in a cold sweat, wondering if this has all just been some terrible fucking dream.
I have a million fucking scenarios playing out in my head at any given moment.
And I have to keep asking, what have I gotten myself into?
I’m Derek fucking Stackford. Since when do I get told what to do?
Why does this bother me so fucking much?
But Wanda has me by the fucking balls … and she knows it.
I hear an airplane rumble overhead and I instinctively look up. Seeing this plane reminds me of what I’m about to do.
“Red Lion Aviation,” Wanda had said, those three words tumbling out of her mouth like gravel. I remember watching her crimson lips part, hardly believing my fucking ears. I have to somehow convince Eliza to invest in this airline, “Or else,” Wanda concluded. And I don’t have to be a fucking genius to figure out what she meant by that.
It isn’t an idle threat either. She could ruin me. My entire company is at stake.
I enter the building and walk toward the elevator. When the doors slide open, I step inside and begin rehearsing what I’m going to say. I’ve got 72 floors to come up with a plan, and the clock is ticking.
I straighten my tie and adjust my suit jacket. I run my fingers through my hair.
What can I possibly say to Eliza? The only thing that comes to mind is decidedly lame, like hi, remember me? You do? Great. Well, I’m here to get you to invest in a company you could give two fucks about.
Yeah, that’s not going to work.
I watch as the numbers light up on the elevator wall… 7, 8, 9 … 15…
Fuck. Time is running out.
Wanda wants me to convince Eliza to invest in Red Lion Aviation, but she didn’t say how. She conveniently left that part out. “That’s all you have to do,” she said, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to pull off. And she said it with such finality.
If I fuck this up, I could lose my entire company.
There’s a lot at stake here.
The thought of that makes my pulse leap. I can’t let that happen; I won’t.
“Just convince her,” Wanda said. That word … ‘convince’ … hangs in my mind like something just out of my reach. So close, but so far.
The elevator continues to climb … 37, 38, 39 … 43 …
I can be persuasive.
I’ve convinced hundreds of clients to make investments that they would’ve never made on their own. I’ve swayed hundreds of women to fuck me by my smile alone.
So why does this task feel especially daunting?
Simple. Because it’s fucking Eliza.
And by seeing her today, I’m ripping open my past.
Fuck, time doesn’t wait for anyone … 59, 60, 61 … I rub my hand behind the nape of my neck, wiping off a thin line of sweat that’s gathering there … 69, 70 …
Ding!
The doors slide open. It’s the moment of truth.
I walk out of the elevator and down the long hallway toward Eliza’s apartment.
Just smile, I tell myself. You’re Derek fucking Stackford. You founded the billion-dollar International equities firm Stackford Capital. How hard can this be?
I approach her door and take a deep breath.
