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Like the curl of a finger from a villain drawing you near.
Alright, that’s a little uncalled for in terms of description. Dad isn’t a villain, he’s just…not fit to be a parent. After Mom died, he threw himself into work to combat the grief, the same way I threw myself into my writing. After a while we just became too distant with no one understanding how to communicate with each other.
Nana Noel hates this building. She says it breathes bitterness instead of love. I still don’t know how to take that. Bitterness because we’re alive and Mom isn’t? Bitterness because we can’t communicate? I’m not sure I want the answer to the questions that spiral in my head.
Aggie, my father’s secretary, winks at me, pointing one pink talon towards the pristine white door to my father’s office.
I suppose it’s too late to run away now. Pulling in a deep breath through my nose, I let it out my mouth as I push open the door.
Immediately my feet stop. The door barely misses me as it hisses closed. I blink several times, trying to clear the mirage from before me, but it remains. Still. Ominous.Powerful.
Aillard Brookwell has the same boyish look he had all those years ago. His hair is different now, longer but somehow masculine. His sharp jawline and dead eyes remain the same as they level on me.
I barely notice Dad in the background.
I should have faked having Ebola.
“Bex,” Aillard says my name like he’s tasting it and finds it lacking. “How nice of you to show up.”
Dad clears his throat, interrupting the smartass remark that is no doubt about to leave my mouth. Dad’s in slacks and a nice polo today, a far cry from Aillard’s two thousand dollar suit. Unlike Aillard’s young and expensive look, Dad’s hair is gray, his mustache perfectly trimmed, and he’s eyeing me with the force of a freight train to stay polite in the billionaire’s company. Harlow Hastings is not a man who likes his image to be darkened by gossip.
“I was busy,” I blurt out. Not actually a lie, but not the entire truth either. I’m caught up on all my tasks, hence the ice cream hunt I was on.
“You’re about to be significantly less,” Aillard says. He gestures towards a white chair in front of me. Just stepping foot in here is giving me hives. I’m a messy person by nature and this entire room is only amplifying my anxiety.
I don’t bother sitting. Instead I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”
The corner of Aillard’s mouth twitches in, dare I say,amusement. “For you to take a meeting.”
“I’m here aren’t I?”
There’s a brief pause before Aillard continues, “At Ward Enterprises.”
Is he insane?I squint, roaming my eyes over his face for a hint that he’s actually joking with me or has indeed had a brain aneurysm that would lead him to think I would voluntarily go there. Aillard seems particularly serious about this, however. No aneurysm. I can barely wrangle the scoff from leaving my throat. “Absolutely not.”
“Bexley Anne,” Dad snaps.
Both brows raise in surprise. “You know what this is about?” Even though I mean it as a question, I can’t help the accusatory tone coming out like a whip.
“I’ll be withholding money for the Hastings Humanitarian Award fund until you go to the meeting,” Aillard states evenly with little emotion. “If you don’t like the terms King is offering, that is fine. Simply going to the meeting ensures I’ll continue to fund the grant for the next chosen winner.”
It sounds like blackmail to me. “What could you possibly need from me at Ward Enterprises?” As the words come out, I know.I knowwhat the bastard wants from me. And I’ll be damned if I play his game. “Absolutely not.” I turn to walk away, anger, hurt, and rage swirling in my veins.
“You’ll want to take their offer,” Aillard says. “It’s in your best interest.”
A sordid laugh escapes. My best interest? The man is certifiable. “You ruined my life before, I’m not going to let you do it again.”
Besides, we’re both tiptoeing around who this is really about.Him. It always comes back to the man I refuse to give the time of day to. He’s part of thethree boysNana Noel mentioned this morning, almost like a foreboding comment wrapped in a sunshiny bow.
“Bex,” Dad’s sharp voice draws my attention. “We need Mr. Brookwell’s money.”
It’s ironic how things come full circle. Eight years ago my father was actually on my side when it came to Aillard and his friends humiliating me at college; now here he is, siding with one of the devils.
“I get this is uncomfortable for you–” Aillard tries.
“Really?” This time there’s no stopping the sarcasm dripping like acid from my tongue. “You don’t get anything. You never have.” I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the mere sight of him. Tossing out Nana Noel’s little tidbit of knowledge from this morning, I say, “I saw on some tabloid you have a girlfriend now. Does she know how utterly repulsive you and the rest of your little clique are?”
“Bex!” Dad admonishes.
