At last, after what felt like forever, he reached the front door.
It opened.
It was a butler. Andrew didn’t recognize him. He must have been new, but it seemed he had been warned about Andrew.
He followed the butler to the living room. Andrew wanted to tell him that he knew the way, but then he thought better of it. It wasn’t like it was his home anymore.
As soon as he entered the room, Derek Rutledge’s dark eyes met his.
Andrew swallowed, acutely aware of the empty space beside him where Vivian would have been. Should have been.
“Welcome back,” Derek said curtly before turning and walking out of the room.
Shawn, Derek’s husband, winced a little. “Don’t take it personally,” he said. “We’re glad you’re alive. Derek…Vivian’s death hit him hard. When we got the news that a few people survived the crash after all and you were one of the survivors…” He shrugged, an uncomfortable look crossing his face. “Derek didn’t really talk about it, but I think he got his hopes up that Vivian might be alive. And now he has to grieve her again, in a way.”
Andrew gave a clipped nod. “It’s fine. I understand.”
A strained silence descended upon the room.
He and Shawn had never really gotten along. They’d gotten off to a bad start—Andrew hadn’t managed to hold his tongue and had publicly insulted him—and it always seemed to taint their interactions, no matter how many years had passed since then. Andrew didn’t know what to do about it. Vivian had always urged him to talk to Shawn and clear the air between them, but Andrew didn’t want to. He’d always been bad at talking about his mistakes, and it wasn’t as though he’d been entirely wrong about Shawn—the guy had clearly been sleeping with Derek because of his money at the time. It didn’t matter that they were in love with each other now—Andrew had been right, dammit.
“Anyway,” Shawn said, finally breaking the awkward silence. “You’re probably tired after the flight. Take a nap if you want. We’ll have dinner later.”
Andrew looked away. “I’m not staying,” he said. “I’ll pack my things and will be out of your hair in a few hours.”
Silence.
“Oh,” Shawn said. “Okay, then.”
Andrew pursed his lips, hating that a part of him wanted the Rutledges—someone, anyone—to say that they wanted him to stay. Or stay for him.
Stupid. Fucking pathetic.
He turned to head upstairs when a thought stopped him. “Who’s been doing my job while I was presumed dead?” He hoped it wasn’t his brother-in-law. Derek might be highly intelligent—he was a professor at Harvard—but he had no idea how to run a company like Rutledge Enterprises.
“Um,” Shawn said, sounding even more uncomfortable. “We kind of had a revolving door of people who had the CEO position. In the end, we gave up and signed a partnership deal with the Caldwell Group. Ian Caldwell has been the CEO the last couple of months until—”
“Ian Caldwell,” Andrew said before whirling around and staring at Shawn incredulously. “The man whose baby sister sliced her wrists when Derek humiliated her by publicly breaking off their engagement? That Ian Caldwell?”
Shawn winced, looking sheepish and pained. “To be fair to us, we had no idea he was her brother. They have different surnames.”
Unbelievable.
Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose. “Does the company even exist anymore?” Ian Caldwell was a shark. A few months would be enough for him to do major damage to the company of the man he had every reason to dislike.
Shawn’s grimace wasn’t exactly encouraging. “It does. The problem is, he sneaked in some seemingly harmless clauses in the contract we signed, so now he basically has unlimited power over the company.”
Great. Just fantastic.
“And now it’s gotten even more complicated,” Shawn said, running a hand over his face. “Caldwell had an accident recently and is still in a coma. It doesn’t look good for him.”
Andrew frowned, struggling to keep up. He’d always had a sharp mind, but he was seriously out of practice after months of barely using it. The nine months of mind-numbing routine would do that to anyone.
“But the thing is,” Shawn said, raking a hand through his blond hair. “All our agreements with the Caldwell Group still stand, and Caldwell’s people are still in charge of the company now.”
“Didn’t you have a lawyer look over the contract before you signed it?” Andrew gritted out. That sounded like a fuck-up of gigantic proportions.
“We did,” Shawn said, rather defensively. “But it looks like Caldwell bought his silence. You know Derek and I aren’t used to all the business language, and reading through the fifty pages of that contract was like reading something in another language. We trusted the lawyer, and he let us down. That’s all.” He sighed. “And you know Derek wanted nothing to do with his father’s company. He didn’t want to waste his time on it, so he was eager to get rid of the responsibility.”
Andrew snorted. “Looks like he got that wish. Fine. I’ll deal with it first thing in the morning.”
“You don’t have to,” Shawn said, a look of discomfort flashing over his stupidly pretty face.
“I know,” Andrew said. “But someone has to, and it isn’t going to be you.”
He strode away, feeling exasperated, irritated—and kind of relieved to have a purpose. Derek and Shawn may not have wanted him around, but they still needed him to get them out of the shit they’d landed their company in while Andrew was presumed dead. He was needed. He had a purpose again.
Part of him registered that it wasn’t the most healthy way of thinking, but he discarded it. It was going to be all right. He just needed to relearn how to live his real life.
This… anxiety would go away soon.
It had to.
Chapter 13
It turned out that Shawn wasn’t kidding when he said that Caldwell’s people were now in charge of Rutledge Enterprises. Andrew spent the next few days alternating between reading the contract and—politely—arguing with Caldwell’s people.
Reading the contract was an exercise in frustration: he was torn between admiring Ian Caldwell for managing to sneak so many loopholes into the contract and being frustrated at the Rutledges for falling for it. Had he been there, he would have never let—
But he hadn’t been there.
No one let him forget that. Even though he didn’t live at Rutledge Manor anymore, Vivian’s ghost—and the island—seemed to follow him everywhere. The pitying looks were bad enough, but the curious ones were even worse. What was it like? Surviving a plane crash? Being stranded on a desert island for so long? Was it horrible? What did he do with his time?
The questions made him want to scream. He’d been trying so hard not to think about the island, but people kept reminding him of it over and over, their curiosity insatiable. What was it like? What was it like? What was it like?
It drove him crazy. It didn’t help that he still struggled with being around people, their gazes, their attention, their voices making his skin crawl. He kept waiting for the terrible disconnect to go away, wanting to feel normal again, but so far it hadn’t happened. He didn’t feel better. In fact, the knot in his chest seemed to become tighter with every passing day. He felt jittery and distracted, and half of the time he felt as if he didn’t know what to do with himself—in the most literal and physical sense.
Enough. He needed to focus on work.
Andrew left his office—his new, temporary office—and headed to his old one. It was occupied by the vice president of the Caldwell Group, who was performing the functions of the CEO while Ian Caldwell was incapacitated.
He wasn’t really looking forward to the conversation.
To be fair, the man was an experienced executive with a fantastic reputation in business circles, but Andrew wasn’t really in the mood to be fair. First he’d lost the company he’d slaved over for years to Derek Rutledge; now he’d lost his position o
f CEO thanks to Derek’s unwillingness to give a fuck about said company. Andrew had read the contract; he knew that had Derek bothered to read it, he would have seen the small print. But he clearly hadn’t given a damn, and now Andrew had to clean up after his mess.
Fuck, he wanted a drink. He wanted—
He wanted Logan.
Andrew cringed and shoved the thought out of his mind. Or tried to. He knew it would be back. It always was. God, he hated these needy thoughts that sneaked back into his mind every twenty minutes. He didn’t fucking need Logan. The sooner he forgot about everything that had happened on the island, the better. It hadn’t been real. This life was real.
Sighing, he murmured a greeting to the CEO’s assistant, a young, harried-looking blond guy. “Is he in?” he said, nodding toward the closed door.
The guy—Nate—pulled a face. “The demon? Is he ever not?”
Andrew made a sympathetic sound. He’d heard that Raffaele Ferrara was a nightmare to work for. The Italian was a major shareholder of the Caldwell Group and its vice president and COO. Only Ian Caldwell had more power in the company than Ferrara did. But while Ian Caldwell had the reputation of a demanding employer, Raffaele Ferrara had the reputation of a tyrant. His poor assistant looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Please tell him I want to talk to him,” Andrew said.
Nate nodded and pushed the button of the intercom. “Mr. Reyes wants to speak to you, Mr. Ferrara.”
A deep voice replied dismissively, “I’m busy. I don’t have time for him.”
Andrew flushed. This was his company, dammit. Had been.
“Don’t be a dick,” Nate said.
Andrew blinked, staring at him in amazement.
“You’re forgetting yourself,” Ferrara said in a very soft voice.
Nate swallowed, but his voice didn’t betray his nervousness as he said stubbornly, “But you’re being one, sir. With all due respect. After what Mr. Reyes has been through, the least you can do is treat him—”
“Fine,” Ferrara bit out. “Let him enter.”
Nate switched the intercom off and gestured to Andrew to go into the office. “I wish I could say he isn’t as much of a dick as he sounds, but he’s actually worse,” he said, sighing and then yawning. “Go on. It’s like pulling teeth.”
“Unpleasantly difficult?”
“That too. But I meant that the more you drag it out, the worse it is. The word ‘patience’ isn’t in his vocabulary.”
Well, that wasn’t exactly encouraging.
When Andrew entered the office, Ferrara looked up at him from his laptop and gave him a flat look. “Did you want something?”
His voice dripped with dismissiveness, and Andrew found his insides clenching. He had always hated being dismissed. He hated that a part of him wanted to run out of this room like a little boy and hide.
He didn’t, of course.
He forced himself to hold the man’s gaze firmly. “Yes,” he said. “My employees have been complaining to me about your methods.”
Ferrara’s eyes bored into him. They were unnerving, truth be told. Raffaele Ferrara was an objectively handsome man, his facial features and olive skin making his Mediterranean roots obvious, but something about his gaze was highly unsettling. The shape of his black eyebrows and his sharp, hawk-like black eyes made him look like a predator. His gaze was heavy, haughty, and condescending. Almost cruel.
“Your employees?” Ferrara said, his voice toneless. “Do you mean my employees?”
Andrew clenched his hand into a fist. The urge to leave was becoming irresistible. “No, my employees. I may not be the CEO anymore, but I own ten percent of the company.”
Ferrara’s thin lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Derek Rutledge is the majority shareholder, and he has signed the contract that gave the Caldwell Group the right to run his company. If you have any objections, you’re welcome to give them to Derek Rutledge.” And he turned back to his computer, a clear dismissal.
Andrew opened his mouth and then closed it.
He’d never felt so helpless in his life. So useless. So small.
“I have been the CEO of this company for years,” he finally managed. “It’s very arrogant of you to reject my help.”
Ferrara didn’t even glance at him. “I don’t need anyone’s help,” he said coldly. “And if people run to you to complain about me, tell them to come to me with their complaints—if they’re so brave.” He started typing, his gaze on his computer. “You’re not needed, Reyes. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve returned to work so soon after the ordeal. I doubt your mental health is where it needs to be.”
Andrew pressed his lips together. “I’m fine,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. They were shaking. “I’m ready to return to my job.”
“I understand that you may think so,” Ferrara said, his voice still flat. “But I’m afraid I can’t give you back this office unless Ian tells me to do so.”
“Caldwell is in a coma and is unlikely to ever wake up,” Andrew bit out. “He isn’t going to tell you jack shit.”
Ferrara’s black eyes shifted back to him. “Are you also a doctor now? He’s breathing. He may wake up yet.”
Andrew decided not to voice his doubts about it. He’d heard somewhere that Raffaele Ferrara and Ian Caldwell were pretty good friends—as much as two ruthless assholes could be friends.
“In any case, the point is moot,” Ferrara said. “You saw the documents we provided. The contract between Rutledge Enterprises and the Caldwell Group makes it clear that the Caldwell Group’s CEO will be managing both companies for the duration of the partnership deal. And that person is me while Caldwell is unavailable. Am I speaking a language you don’t understand?” His tone was final, dismissive, as if he were speaking to a stupid, annoying child.
Feeling angry, helpless, and utterly humiliated, Andrew turned and left the office.
His hands were shaking so badly by this point that he had to ball his fingers into fists.
He couldn’t remember getting back, but he must have, because the next thing he was aware of, he was huddled on the couch in his office, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head between them as he tried to breathe through the waves of nausea.
He wasn’t needed. He wasn’t needed even here. No one needed him. No one wanted him around. The only person who had ever wanted—loved—him was dead, taking with her every good thing in his life. Now he was nothing. He was useless. He was wanted by no one.
I never wanted him. I’ll never understand people who want children. All that boy did was ruin my cousin’s life—and now my career too.
“Shut up,” he whispered, pressing his hands to his ears, as if that would stop the voice in his head. It didn’t. It never really did. Those words were one of his first memories, his aunt’s annoyed tone as clear in his mind as if it had happened yesterday and not almost thirty years ago.
He’d always been proud of not letting his childhood define him. Sure, it hadn’t been the best, but it hadn’t been the worst, either. It had been fine. He might not have grown up in a loving environment, but he’d had it better than most orphans. His childhood had been fine. He had been fed, clothed, and he’d had a roof over his head. No one abused him. It had been fine. He didn’t need anyone to love him.
Except it seemed he still was the same pathetic, insecure little boy who had tried to pretend he didn’t hear his aunt’s words as she complained to her friends about being saddled with raising him after her cousin had died—because no one else wanted him—and how he ruined his mother’s life when she’d gotten pregnant with him, not allowing her to pursue her dreams of college, and how Andrew was the sole reason his aunt couldn’t accept a lucrative job offer she’d gotten.
Aunt Rebecca wasn’t a bad woman. By all standards, she was a good one: self-sacrificing and generous. She had been just twenty-five when she had taken him in after his mother’s death at the hand of a mugger. Although he called
her “Aunt,” she was his mother’s cousin, not a close relative. She had raised him even though she didn’t have to. Andrew appreciated the sacrifices she had made for him, and he showed his appreciation to this day, supporting her financially and visiting her on holidays. He was grateful to her. He was.
But there was a reason he always felt emotionally drained after a visit to her. There was a reason he had always dragged Vivian with him when he visited Aunt Rebecca. Having his wife beside him, his kind, lovely, amazing wife who had chosen him, who had wanted him, was the only thing that made those visits bearable.
Not good enough, Andrew. You aren’t trying hard enough. You can do better. Try harder.
His aunt’s voice echoed in his head, the words she’d said all his life. Never quite pleased. Always a disapproving frown on her face. And him, the boy who owed her everything, trying and failing to please her again and again. Even his first job at Rutledge Enterprises was the result of his aunt’s pushing. No matter what he did, it wasn’t good enough. His marriage to Vivian was probably the only thing his aunt had ever approved of.
He hadn’t gone to see his aunt after his return. He knew he should do it. Aunt Rebecca had wasted her best years on raising him, a child she’d never wanted. He owed her a visit. He dreaded it, now more than ever.
Fuck, it was so stupid. He was a grown man. He shouldn’t have been scared of seeing one small, middle-aged woman, just because he had never been good enough for her.
But with Vivian gone, he had nothing to hide behind anymore. He was still as unwanted and unneeded as he was thirty years ago. A man who outlived his usefulness. A man who shouldn’t have outlived his wife. It was her everyone wanted back, not him. Even Aunt Rebecca was fonder of Vivian than she had ever been of him. Andrew being back just reminded everyone that Vivian was dead while he was alive.
Maybe he should have died with her.
Maybe he should have stayed on the island and let everyone think he was dead.
He suddenly yearned for it, for the sheer simplicity of that life. It might have been weird, messed up, and downright unhealthy, but at least on the island he hadn’t felt as though he was insufficient, unneeded, or wanting. He hadn’t felt so useless. He had felt… he had felt content.
Just a Bit Wrecked Page 7
