Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
When I didn’t move, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, which was a mannerism he’d unwittingly picked up from me.
“I’m asking,” he said. “Please.”
The word didn’t come easily to him, and I could respect that. We were both aware of the hierarchy at HBHC and how far he’d risen, and I appreciated that he chose not to flex his power or throw it in my face, especially since when the roles were reversed, I’d done it to him.
I was a sore loser, yet my son was gracious in his victory.
“You’ve made your point,” I said, conceding. I was tired and no good to anyone. “You’ll call if anything comes across your desk that needs my input.”
He relaxed a degree. “Yeah, of course.”
I gave a short nod as a goodbye and resumed my journey toward my office, but felt his gaze at my back. Despite everything I’d done, he still cared enough about me to worry, proving he was a better man than I’d given him credit for. It gave me a sliver of hope we’d find a way to repair some of the damage I’d done.
Sophia was at her desk, hunched over her computer for once instead of her phone, but when my shadow fell over her, she lifted her gaze to mine and kept her face blank.
“My office,” I barked. “Now.”
As expected, she did exactly as asked and shut the door behind us. However, alarm made her tense when I strode to one of the couches and sat, pointing to the other across from me.
There was an edge of panic she tried to keep out of her voice. “Are you firing me?”
“No.” I watched her scurry toward the couch. “We need to discuss last night.”
“Oh.” She wore a red top and a black and white houndstooth skirt, which rode up a little as she crossed her long legs. Her expression was guarded. “Which speech am I getting?”
“Excuse me?”
Her eyes were dull and resigned. “I have a lot of work to do, so let’s save us both some time. Is this the ‘you’re a great girl, and last night was fun, but it didn’t mean anything’ speech? Or the ‘it was a mistake and it can’t happen again’ one?”
It was stunning how quickly she upended my thoughts. I had spent the ride in this morning carefully crafting the specific language to use to minimize how upset she’d likely become when I told her I was putting a stop to this. Yet she didn’t seem upset at all.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I clarified, “but you’re correct. It cannot happen again.”
“Okay,” she said plainly, the matter settled. “Is there anything else?”
Her dismissive attitude was a knife in my gut. I should have been pleased to have it over with so painlessly. It was a better outcome than I could have hoped for. But the idea that she had no qualms about walking away from me after what we’d done—what we’d shared—last night . . .
It rankled.
No, worse. I despised it.
“Don’t misunderstand,” I tried to keep my tone even and not seethe, “this isn’t what I want, but it’s necessary. You are too young, and if anyone were to find out, it’d destroy us both.”
“I get it.” She uncrossed her legs and smoothed her palms down her skirt before rising to her feet. “It would be bad if anyone knew.” She stared at me with electricity in her eyes and a cruel smile on her lips. “It’s really a shame,” she deadpanned, “that neither of us is any good at keeping secrets.”
My tired mind failed me with a response, and by the time I’d drummed one up, she was halfway out the door.
It vexed me the way Sophia pretended nothing had happened between us. Perhaps she was proving her point. I knew nothing about any of the secrets she held, or why she wanted the focus of DuBois’s book to be partly on her.
It was staggering the way she could compartmentalize her emotions, but it made sense. To compete at the Olympic level, she’d learned to turn off everything that had the potential to distract from her goal.
I was downright jealous of her ability.
Arrangements were made as we’d discussed. On Monday, I had dinner with Damon Lynch and offered to host an event for him and his campaign at my estate in July, which he graciously accepted. On Tuesday afternoon, I went to the Boston Opera Theatre to speak with the theatre director and came back to the office $200,000 poorer, but a guarantee that my grant would be used to produce a show casting Scoffield’s daughter Erika in a role, even if it were a minor one.
On Wednesday, I went to human resources and put someone on hiring Jason Vanderburgh, whatever position would be a good fit for both him and my company.