The Billionaire's Heart (The Silver Cross Club Book 4) (27 page)

After about ten minutes—my father wanted me impatient and annoyed—a woman emerged from the nearest elevator, and I recognized my father’s venerable battleship of a personal assistant, Henrietta, who was eighty if she was a day and had been working for my father since the Johnson administration.

“Henrietta,” I said, straightening up. “What a delight.”

She pursed her mouth and said, “Mr. Sloane will see you now.”

Of course. No time for chit-chat. I followed her into the same elevator she had exited from. She swiped her security card and punched the single button on the control panel. A private elevator, then, with direct access to my father. That was new. I was surprised he didn’t intend to make me go through the servants’ entrance.

The elevator rose smoothly upward. We rode in silence, Henrietta staring straight ahead, oozing disapproval. She was loyal as a dog, and anyone who got on my father’s bad side became the immediate target of Henrietta’s wrath. I suspected brainwashing, but couldn’t prove it.

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and we emerged into the waiting area outside my father’s office.

Henrietta went straight for her desk and pushed the button to activate the intercom. “Sir, your son is here.”

The intercom crackled. “Send him in,” my father’s voice said.

I went in. My father’s office was a cavernous space, dimly lit, with his enormous, antique desk backed against the far wall. It was a long walk across the carpet, and the effect was that of a displeased king awaiting some wayward knight. I could easily imagine hapless underlings quaking in terror as they made the approach.

Long practice had inoculated me against my father’s intimidation techniques. I strolled toward his desk, hands casually shoved in my pockets—a habit he hated; he said it was sloppy and unprofessional—and said, “Kind of you to make room for me in your busy schedule.”

“Elliott,” he said. He didn’t stand to greet me. “You know I expect you to call Henrietta twenty-four hours ahead of time if you want to see me.”

Talking to him was like entering a time warp. I was sixteen again: sullen, resentful, and tongue-tied. “It’s important,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “Vastly more important than the conference call you just interrupted.”

I worked my jaw. Words piled up in my mouth, unspoken.

“Cat got your tongue?” he sneered. “Spit it out.”

I breathed in. I exhaled. There was a time when I
hated
my father, when every interaction with him set a terrible fire burning in my gut. I fought that fire now. He was a petty tyrant, a bitter man who found no joy in life except through making money. I wouldn’t end up like him.

I wouldn’t hate him any longer, I decided. I would try to understand him. I would be kind. I would feel pity for him instead of rage.

“I’m here to tell you that I’m done,” I said. “I won’t ever work for you. I won’t take over the company. I’ll go to your funeral, but I’m finished with being your son.”

He smiled. He thought I was playing the game with him. “I’ve cut you off,” he said. “You won’t last six months.”

“I know you have,” I said. “I’ve lasted this long. Go ahead and disinherit me for good. You can do it tonight.”

He gave me a narrow look. “Play your card, Elliott.”

This was my father’s life: machinations, strategy. Everyone was out to get something. “I spoke to mom’s lawyers recently,” I said. “Turns out she left me a pretty sizable trust fund.”

He started laughing. “Of course. So that’s your ticket out, is it? Still clinging to mommy’s apron strings. You’ll never be a man, Elliott. You’re still just a nervous little boy.”

I considered all of my possible responses. I could argue with him, insult him, try to convince him that he was wrong. None of it would work. He would never be proud of me, no matter what I did. There was no point.

And so I turned my back on him and walked out of his office.

“Elliott,” I heard him say behind me, but I didn’t stop.

Henrietta, in grim silence, escorted me back to the lobby. I walked out of the building into the weak January sunlight, trying to decide how I felt. Angry? Humiliated?

I felt nothing. I was free.

Three decades of trying to please my father, and I was done. I didn’t care anymore.

In a month, I would have fifty million dollars, and I could do anything I wanted.

I took a cab home. Speeding along FDR Drive, my phone rang.

It was Sadie.

“I got your note,” she said.

“And?” I asked.

She was silent for a few moments. “I’m sorry for doubting you,” she said at last. “But I need some time.”

It wasn’t
I’m going to work for Eric
. It wasn’t
don’t ever contact me again
. Time I could work with. I could give her that. “As much as you need,” I said. “But I hope it won’t be too long.”

Another pause. “I’m scared,” she said.

I closed my eyes. Brave, fragile Sadie. I could hear in her voice how hard it had been for her to admit her fear. “There’s nothing to be scared of,” I said.

She sighed. “I guess not.” I listened to her breathe, in and out, a quiet presence at the other end of the line. “Look, I’ll call you in a few days, okay? I’m just… I need some time.”

“Okay,” I said. “Whatever you need.”

After we hung up, I told the cab driver to turn around, and texted Kristin that I was coming over. Sadie needed time, and I needed an evening spent drinking wine with Kris and listening to her talk about what she termed “boy problems.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Sadie

I was still in my pajamas when Elliott’s package arrived well past noon, and I had to go downstairs and talk to the bike messenger with my hair wrapped in a scarf like somebody’s grandma. The guy didn’t bat an eye, though, and I reminded myself that this was New York: half the people I knew worked from home, and the other half had weird hours that meant they were home in the middle of the day. Like I was. Nothing unusual.

After I had signed for the package, and taken it back upstairs to my apartment, I set it on the coffee table and looked at it. It was completely ordinary in every way: fat, rectangular, that funny orange-brown color like all shipping envelopes. My address was written on the back in Elliott’s firm hand.

Well. It probably wouldn’t bite me.

I opened it up and slid the papers out. On the top of the stack was a handwritten note. I looked at it, at the black ink scrawled across the page, and I closed my eyes. I wasn’t sure I wanted to read what he had to say.

I had to. I had to be a grown-up and read it.

I took a deep breath.

Dear Sadie,

Uganda International Friendship is a shell corporation for a Ugandan NGO. They received funding from the World Health Organization, with the stipulation that the money can’t be spent outside of the country. But they’re interested in my work with water filter technology, and they offered to help fund me while I develop a prototype. UIF was created to funnel the money in question out of the country without raising any red flags. The Ugandan government might be displeased, but there’s nothing truly illicit going on.

I’ve attached some relevant documents. Please know that I wasn’t deliberately concealing information from you. I simply thought the entire situation was a non-issue, and not something you would find particularly interesting. Eric has a real talent for putting a dark spin on just about any scenario.

I hope you’ll come back and work for me again. We’re great together. And yes, I do mean that as an innuendo. I want to wake up beside you every day for the rest of my life.

With all my heart,

Elliott

I dropped the letter on the coffee table and sank down onto the sofa, bending forward and pressing my forehead against my knees. I didn’t need to read the documents he’d sent. Everything he said made sense—more sense than what Eric had told me. And I knew that Elliott was a good man.

I read the papers anyway. I was curious, and he’d sent them to me, so why not? Everything was exactly as he said. The Ugandan woman he’d been corresponding with was apologetic about all of it in an “oh isn’t this silly” sort of way. The problem was the Ugandan government: they received money from the WHO, and then doled it out to various charity organizations, and they didn’t want the money leaving the country. I could understand the reasoning, although it seemed a little short-sighted to me.

So Elliott wasn’t a liar, or a thief. I didn’t have to stop associating with him. I could keep my job. I could keep making out with him. We didn’t have to stop.

I should have felt relieved, but instead I just felt a sad muddle of worry and confusion churning in my gut. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew I had to figure it out pretty soon.

I called him and told him I needed some time.

I could tell he wasn’t thrilled, and I felt bad, but I was undergoing a sea change, and that wouldn’t happen overnight. I needed a few days to get my head straight.

After I got off the phone with Elliott, I went to take a shower. It looked pretty nice outside, sunny and not too cold, and I didn’t want to waste the entire day sitting on my couch like some pathetic basement-dwelling shut-in. My heart ached. I needed advice, and a metaphorical shoulder to cry on.

I called Regan.

“I would
love
to get out of the house,” she said. “Can you come here? We can go to the park. I haven’t been outside in two days.”

“Oh, Regan,” I said, and sighed. She really needed to get back to work. “Of course I’ll come to you. I just need to do my makeup, so I’ll leave in like ten minutes, okay? Put that baby in a stroller. I’m going to bring you some vodka in a water bottle.”

“I’m not supposed to drink while I’m breastfeeding,” she said.

“I think you can have a little bit,” I said. “I’ll call my mom on the way over. She’ll know.”

“She’s an oncologist,” Regan said.

“She’s still a
doctor
,” I said. “Don’t argue with me. I’ll come prepared.”

“Okay,” Regan said, laughing a little.

I took the subway to 23rd Street and walked the few blocks to Regan’s house. She was sitting on the front steps waiting for me, the stroller parked on the sidewalk at her feet. She stood up and waved when she saw me coming.

“I hope you haven’t been out here long,” I said, giving her a hug.

“Not long,” she said. “It’s nice to get some fresh air.”

I bent to peer into the stroller. The baby stared at me and tried to shove its fist in its mouth. Okay. Nothing exciting going on there.

We walked to the small park a few blocks away and sat on a bench beneath the leafless trees. Children ran and shouted, chased by harried mothers—or, since this was Chelsea, nannies.

“Elliott wants a relationship,” I said, because I didn’t believe in beating around the bush.

Regan smiled. “I know,” she said. “He called Carter last week and they had one of those conversations where men try to talk about their feelings but they’re really bad at it.”

“And then Carter told you all about it,” I said.

“Of course,” Regan said.

“Oh, good,” I said. “So my personal life is already common knowledge.”

“That makes it easier for you,” Regan said. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”

I snorted. “Okay, so tell me what I should do.”

“You like him,” Regan said. “I know you do, because I saw how you were when you both came over for dinner. He’s a good guy. I think it’s a good idea for you to start dating again. So that’s all. That’s what I think. I don’t know what you should do, though. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I was hoping you would tell me.”

“It’s hard making decisions, isn’t it?” Regan asked. “I know that probably sounds like I’m making fun of you, but I’m not. I don’t mean decisions like what to eat for dinner. The big stuff, though. It’s really hard. I always thought that grown-ups had all the answers, and that someday I would be an adult and know everything, and I wouldn’t ever be scared or uncertain. But that’s not how it goes.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Isn’t that the truth. We’re all just making it up as we go.”

“Yeah,” she said, and sighed deeply, and said, “I think I’m a bad mother.” And then she started crying.

“Regan, honey,” I said, horrified. I wrapped my arms around her, and she sobbed against my shoulder. I wasn’t sure what to do. I experienced a brief moment of resentment that Regan had hijacked my complaining about Elliott, but I quickly pushed that aside. If Regan was weeping openly in public, something terrible was going on, and she needed my support.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m sorry,” and kept crying.

A passing woman stared at us. I stared back, daring her to say something, and she moved on by.

Lord. We were making a scene. “Honey, come on,” I said. “What’s wrong? How can you say you’re a bad mother? You know that isn’t true.”