Blair sat beside my father’s desk with a notebook open and pen in hand. The meeting must be important if he made Blair come in to record it.
Edgar sat in one of the leather chairs in front of my father’s desk. Richard walked over to him, head bowed ever so slightly, and dropped in the seat beside him. Edgar glanced over at me, lips thinned. As the CFO, Edgar was my direct supervisor. Eliciting his wrath hadn’t been on the radar when I broke up with his son, and his glare sent a wave of nausea throughout my stomach.
Gerard and Hudson stood off to the side, the latter wearing a full suit with a properly affixed tie. It was unsettling to see him give a damn, especially on the weekend. Gerard stood next to him, albeit dressed less professional. He had on khakis, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up.
As I took my place beside Gerard, a familiar stench wafted into my nose. It was faint, but it was there: rot.
Rolf was here.
“What’s wrong?” Gerard asked. “Don’t tell me this meeting has you nervous.”
I couldn’t exactly say anything about Rolf. “I can’t help it.”
“I heard you dumped Richard,” Gerard said none too quietly. The scorch on my face, hot like a summer breeze, eventually covered me from head to toe. “Brava, Matilda. I didn’t think you’d ever get a backbone.”
“Can you do this later? Richard is right there.”
“I could…but I don’t want to.”
The door to my father’s office swung open again. Hudson stiffened beside Gerard and rolled his shoulders back so his chest puffed out.
“Who’s that?” I asked Gerard, although I suspected he was the William my father had mentioned by the elevator.
“Milton’s lawyer.” The lawyer was in his late forties, sporting a graying beard and a scalp that had already started to bald. His dark suit and bright-red tie were an attempt to establish himself as the authority in the room, I could tell. “Now do you see why I’m not nervous? We’re here as window dressing, Matilda.”
Gerard’s words hit me like a baseball bat to the gut.
That’s why the meeting involved the board. My father was going to officially name Hudson as his successor.
“Thank you for coming today,” my father said with his lawyer perched beside him, leather folder in hand. He didn’t sound as weary as his eye bags made him look. “For those of you that don’t know, this is my lawyer, William Deutsch.”
William nodded and smiled politely.
“This isn’t a conversation I planned on having so soon,” Milton said with a heavy sigh. He took a moment to straighten his suit jacket. Charcoal gray, like always. “I thought I’d have more time. I’m told that’s a common complaint, but I truly believed it.”
The floor, now unsteady beneath my feet, sucked all illusion of control out from under me.
“And why has time become an issue?” Gerard, surprisingly, was the one to speak to our father’s cryptic words first.
“Cancer, son,” he replied. “Cancer.”
There had been a time in high school where I’d briefly worried over my father’s health. Since my mother had already died, I’d worried that he wouldn’t make it to see me graduate and I’d be the only one on the stage without a parent present. In retrospect, it was kind of silly. There hadn’t even been a risk of death at the time, and even though he was alive, he still didn’t show up. Miss Masha had come. She hadn’t even been paid to. But my father hadn’t. A business meeting had run late.
Yet now that a very real and very deadly diagnosis accompanied Milton’s news, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were a lie. The powerful Milton Ashby taken down by disease? No. Never.
“Cancer,” Gerard continued to speak. “What sort of cancer?”
“Pancreatic, originally, but it has since metastasized to my liver and my lungs,” Milton said in the matter-of-fact way that only he could do.
“Surgery?” Gerard asked. “Can they remove it?”
The silence, despite its brevity, rang in my ears.
“It isn’t amenable to surgery.” My father kept his hands in the pockets of his suit pants and continued to look as relaxed as he had before telling us his secret. Like he wasn’t dying. Like he wasn’t about to turn over his legacy to a complete and total loser like Hudson.
“I’m not here today looking for sympathy. Quite frankly, I don’t want it.” Milton stopped speaking to Gerard and looked around the room. “I’m here to take care of business.”
Business. Always business.
“When I started this company years ago, I had a vision for it. I’ve followed that vision through until today, and it was with that vision, individual performance, and words from you, members of the board, that I came to my decision for how that vision will be pursued in my absence.”
For the first time in my life, I could tell my father was uneasy. His gaze flickered down, and he rocked on his feet.
“The purpose for this meeting today is to inform all applicable parties of the decisions I have made in regard to the future of the company. Other matters, such as my personal estate, will be dealt with after I’m put in the ground.”
Put in the ground. I slapped a hand over my mouth and bit the skin on my finger to keep from falling apart. Twenty-six years of pain pooled on my tongue, aching to tumble out.
“Do you want some time, Milton?” One of the board members, the old man in golfing shoes, finally found something worthwhile to say. Rolf’s stink still floated around the room, but it could be anyone. Surely someone else smelled it. “You don’t need to announce this decision today—”
“Yes, I do, Dennis. The sooner we finalize everything, the sooner I can die in peace.” Milton sighed. “Although I appreciate the thought.”
The board members were all silent. Like my siblings and me, they hadn’t seen this information coming.
“As you all know, I am both the founder and majority shareholder of Ashby Corporation.” He looked over at us, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the Ashby brown. “I am formally starting the process to pass down those shares in hopes that I will have time to transition the new CEO to their role, as well as reassure shareholders whenever news of my diagnosis becomes public.”
“Milton,” the sole woman on the board spoke up from the cluster of them congregated by the window. Was she Rolf in disguise? “Would you like to have this moment with your children first?”
“No, Donna, I would not.” Milton’s voice was firm. “They’re adults, and more than that, they’re my employees. They are in this meeting in a professional capacity and will handle it as such.”
When he glanced back to us, I knew his words for the threat they were.
My father looked over at William Deutsch and his leather folder. The lawyer seemed uncomfortable but spoke firm.
“To Matilda Jane Ashby…”
I hid the quiver of my lip behind my palm. Why was he reading my name? He shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t say my name at all.
“Thirty-three percent of Milton Ashby’s shares in Ashby Corporation.”
It wasn’t until Mr. Deutsch had moved on that I realized I’d completely fallen against Gerard, shaking feet unable to keep me fully upright. Gerard grabbed my upper arm and helped me to stand against him, but he didn’t let go.
My father was dying, and he left me shares.
“To Milton Hudson Ashby II, thirty-three percent of Milton Ashby’s shares in Ashby Corporation.”
My chest clenched tighter. Hudson and I got the same amount? That meant—
“To Gerard Joseph Ashby”—the lawyer’s voice got tight—“thirty-four percent of Milton Ashby’s shares in Ashby Corporation.”
The silence that followed his final proclamation was the same sort of silence found in graveyards and funerals. It was a rattling kind of thing that shook in my ears even though no one said a word. Even the usual sounds of New York City on the streets below were muted, like they didn’t exist, and the entirety of Milton Ashby’s office had been swept away into another
dimension.
My father had left his business, his legacy, to Gerard.
Not Hudson.
The board members all wore varying expressions of shock as it sank in that Gerard would become majority shareholder. For a board that had likely advocated for that very thing, it was good news to hear. Investors would be appeased, the employees would be reassured, and our position in the market wouldn’t be affected with our father’s passing as much as it would’ve been had Hudson been given the thirty-four percent. These were things my father had probably accounted for.
I looked up to Gerard. His mouth, usually plastered into a scowl of some sort, hung open much like Richard’s always did. He didn’t blink or breathe, and if my own grief didn’t fool me, a tremor shook his hands.
I didn’t dare look at Hudson.
“I’m not interested in debate.” My father, having allowed the room a few moments to absorb the astonishment, had taken over again with his commanding voice. “I will meet with board members on Monday morning after other conversations have been made. I will announce my decision to the public at the Horseshoe Club on Friday after documentation has been signed. Please keep this between the members of this meeting until then.”
Edward, the youngest member of the board, had recovered quicker than the other board members. “What time would you like to meet with us on Monday, Milton?”
“How about”—my father paused a moment—“ten?”
Edward nodded. The man with the mustache beside him, Charles, still looked like someone had run by and yanked on his facial hair. Nelson, the final member of the board, stood speechless and white in the face.
“Matilda.” My father’s voice scared me so bad I pulled away from Gerard. “I’ll speak with you at eight.”
Eight in the morning on Monday. That gave me less than forty-eight hours to get over the bomb dropped in my lap. I couldn’t imagine an instance where that would be enough time.
“Hudson.” Disappointment lingered in our father’s voice. After years of dissecting absolutely everything the man said, it was obvious. Gerard had never been his first choice in company heir. It had always been Hudson, and if my oldest brother had put in any effort whatsoever, the meeting would’ve gone much differently. “I will meet with you at nine on Monday morning.”
Hudson didn’t say anything, and I still didn’t want to look at him.
“Gerard.” Milton’s voice got a little firmer. “You do not get the weekend. You will meet with me and Mr. Deutsch now.”
The room swam around me, swirling and drifting like we’d somehow slowed time when we hadn’t at all. After Gerard left my side to sit with our father, everyone slowly left, leaving to continue their weekend like our family hadn’t just irrevocably changed again. Rolf could’ve come out of the woodwork and killed me. I wasn’t sure I would’ve noticed.
Eventually it was just me. The board and Hudson had left. Edgar and Richard had too. Blair sat beside my father and William Deutsch. Gerard, head bowed, listened as my father spoke without complaint or objection. The whole room still smelled of Rolf, but the scent could still be lingering from the time we’d sat in it. Maybe Samson encountered Rolf as he left the office in disguise?
The chill of the office air wrapped around my arms, sending a cascade of goose bumps all over my body when I finally moved. Samson waited by the elevator with a frown on his face.
“I want to go home,” I said, voice cracking in the back of my throat. All thoughts of strangling him for his dating comments had vanished.
Samson’s brow furrowed a moment, but he kept his questions to himself. I couldn’t answer anything without crying, and he probably knew that.
He called for the elevator, and we stood in complete silence until it arrived. The only sound shared between us was our shoes scraping the floor, and when we stood alone inside, there was nothing but our breathing and the creaking of the elevator moving down the shaft.
Since I couldn’t make myself say the words, the only thing I could think to do was take advantage of our method of communication that didn’t require words at all. I reached over and slipped my hand over the top of his, finding more comfort than I expected as my palm met warmth and fingers curled around his rough knuckles.
I was tired. So unbearably tired. Tired of running and hiding and plotting.
Tears pooled at my lash line and tumbled down my cheeks as the elevator descended. My mother—dead. My father—dying. Both of my brothers hated each other, and if I got murdered by Rolf, neither of them would likely notice.
The ache in my bones took on a new meaning as my deepest desire pooled alongside the fear and grief. I’d known what I wanted for years but ignored it in hopes that my father would see my worth and our family would heal from our mother’s death. That maybe if I tried hard enough, things would be fixed. That everything would come back together, and I’d have the family I always wanted. Needed.
I was tired of being scared, but more tired of being alone.
“Did”—a sob shook in my throat and I squeezed Samson’s hand tighter—“did you see Rolf come out? He was in there. I smelled him.”
A long, loud pause. He curled his fingers around mine, something that might’ve surprised me if my world wasn’t crumbling beneath my feet. “No.”
I choked on another sob as the implication sank in.
My father was dying, and someone still in his office was the fae in disguise.
Twenty-Four
After realizing I’d left Rolf in my father’s office, I almost hyperventilated. If Samson hadn’t forced me off the elevator, I would’ve gone straight back to the forty-sixth floor and spoiled everything.
“If we go in guns blazing now, we might get Rolf, but we’ll lose whoever bought your contract and everyone will find out what’s going on.” He pushed me through the lobby of the Ashby Building with a hand on my lower back. Thank goodness Tiffany didn’t work on the weekends. “Let’s wait. Be smart.”
“Wouldn’t the person he’s impersonating be the one who hired him?” My lungs burned from all my frantic breaths. I whirled around and poked him in the chest. Hard. “Ever think about that?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he ate someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But if we spook him now, we’ll never know.” Samson put his hands on my biceps, grip tight. “Thanks to Vee, we’ve got an advantage we won’t get again. And if I kill Rolf, there’s always the chance Frank sends something much worse…especially since he undoubtedly knows I’m helping you by now.”
“What could possibly be worse?” My voice cracked.
“A lot.” Samson’s eyes filled with ruptured blood vessels sent a tremor down my arms. While they’d improved in the past days, they were a stark reminder of what he could do. “It could get so much worse. Please…trust me. Let’s leave Rolf for now and make a plan to get everyone at once.”
I didn’t want to, but I conceded. He was right. We had to be smart.
“Who was left in the office?” Samson asked once we were safely tucked away in the car.
“My father. Gerard.” Saying Gerard’s name pulled fresh tears from my ducts. I couldn’t stand it if the person who bought my death was Gerard. I just couldn’t. “My father’s lawyer, William, and my father’s assistant, Blair.”
Samson whipped out of the parking spot and weaved through the garage.
“Rolf’s not pretending to be your dad. I know that.” That’s right. They shook hands. Samson drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and pulled out into the street. “The lawyer walked right by me when he hopped off the elevator. It wasn’t him.”
That left Gerard and Blair.
“I was right next to Gerard.” My voice, small and weak, barely reached my ears. Why was I such a baby? Would it kill me to have a spine just this once?
“When did you start smelling the fae?”
When I stood beside Gerard. I couldn’t say it. My silence must’ve answered his question.
“All right.” Samson cleared his th
roat and looked over at me as he made a turn—heading home. “So your dad’s dying. The brother that got the company might be working with Rolf or got eaten by him. Or it could be the assistant. Anything else?”
“I’m meeting with my father and his lawyer on Monday.” There wasn’t a single part of me that didn’t want to give up. “And he’s announcing this news to the public at a party at the Horseshoe Club on Friday.”
Samson braced the door and propped his cheek on a curled fist. We rolled to a stop at a red light. “Rolf is going to make a move when he can get us separated and ignore me altogether. That party might be when he does it.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose as the light turned green. The Mercedes lurched forward, and the faint scent of gyros from a street vendor made my stomach grumble.
Samson was right. The party.
He would strike at the party because Samson wouldn’t be able to get in without my father finding out.
It was a strange thing to feel grief on behalf of someone who had been the source of most of my pain, yet I could do nothing but operate in a state of stunned silence. My father was dying. Milton Ashby, business mogul and multimillionaire, was dying. Gerard might have bought my contract, and if I wanted to survive, I’d have to severely cripple the organization my dying father built to make my brother answer for trying to kill me.
Despite wanting nothing more than to stand beneath scalding water and put on my pajamas, I let Samson take the first shower when we returned home. Not only did he smell like an ashtray, but I needed something to eat. It took an inhuman amount of focus, but I managed to keep myself from crying the entire time I ordered some pizza for delivery, only losing it at the end when they wished me a good night. I popped open my red wine afterward, downing a glass almost immediately. Then another.
I was not having a good night. I might not ever have a good night again.
The instant Samson vacated my bathroom, I shut myself in there and cried my eyes out. Eventually I heaved my sobbing carcass into the shower, where I allowed myself to cry some more, and I sat on the shower floor like that until the water ran cold.
The Family Cross Page 16
