Victoria struggled to wrap her brain around the meaning. She grasped enough that hurt and rage hummed inside. “It’s not Mischa’s baby. And even if it was, how would the donation fall under what you’re talking about? That’s the reason you don’t pay him, right?”
“You earned a promotion from that. A pay raise.”
“For the string of donations. Because that’s my fucking job. You rewarded me for excelling at what I was hired for. If he was the father—and I’ll reiterate again he’s not—the man is worth millions. Your extra fifty dollars a month isn’t worth the cost of a fucking building.” She couldn’t hold back her anger now that she’d let the lid off.
Malory looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here. “This is only temporary, and just for show. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can let you get back to work. In the meantime, you need to clean out your desk.”
“Of course you do. But it’s just for show. Only temporary.” What would happen if Victoria started throwing things? This was beyond unbelievable.
“I’m sorry. This is for the charity. Will you close my door again on your way out?”
Victoria stalked to her seat, and dropped into her chair. As she uncurled her fingers, crescent-shaped marks glared up at her, the skin red and broken from her fingernails.
She stared up at the ceiling, blinking away the tears and willing herself not to lose it in the middle of the office.
Tonight she’d meet up with everyone, they’d find a solution. Except she wouldn’t. Because if image was a problem when she and Tristan were laying low, there was no way she could afford to be doing things like dinner at Mischa’s house.
Fuuuuck. The scream echoed in her skull.
Chapter Twenty-Two
TRISTAN MET CHRISTIAN in the lobby of the real estate firm, and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming out here,” Tristan said.
“Of course.” Christian lived in L.A. He’d been Spencer’s lawyer first, and it was Spencer who recommended him.
Tristan nodded toward the conference room. “I have you set up in here, in case you need the space to spread out. I’ve got some butcher paper on order, and we’ll paper over the windows this afternoon.”
“Fantastic. Hate that fish bowl feeling.” Christian joined him in the room.
The paper was more because he’d be working with sensitive documents, and have them spread over the table, but making light of it made the situation easier to stomach.
Tristan closed the doors and they sat across from each other. “What did you want to talk about?”
The lawyer had sent him an email when his flight landed, saying they needed to meet when Christian got into the office.
Christian pulled his laptop from its bag. “I’ve been going through the information from the charity’s attorney—thank you for putting me in touch with them by the way—as well as some other notes. This Donation Ambassador of theirs, Victoria Small?”
“Yes?” Tristan forced a mask into place, despite the concern that grew inside.
“I understand she’s pregnant.”
“She is. Is that relevant?” Don’t let the edge creep into your voice, the warning whirred in Tristan’s head.
“Is it Mischa’s?”
Tristan clenched his jaw before he could stop the gesture, then forced himself to relax. “No. I guarantee that’s not the case.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Christian studied him.
One reason the man made a good lawyer. He could actually see when people were hiding things. “This is just between us. Attorney client privilege and all that?”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
Tristan sighed. “It’s nothing like that. It’s my child.”
“Jesus Christ, Tristan.” Christian scrubbed his face. “And you gave her a building?”
“Mischa gave the charity a building. And I didn’t know about Victoria when that happened.”
“The firm donated the building, because that’s the way the dates on the paperwork fall,” Christian said. “Was she pregnant at the time?”
“Yes.”
Christian rolled his neck. “I’ll keep the information privileged, but if it comes out—”
“It wasn’t a factor.”
“Right. Are you still seeing each other?”
“We talk. We’re friendly.” Tristan hated the taste of the lie, but he was pretty sure he kept it from his face.
Christian made some notes on his laptop. “Your friendly with your former business partner’s ex-girlfriend, who you impregnated, and also donated a building to. And I thought this couldn’t get more convoluted.”
He had no idea. “Do you need anything else from me right now?”
“No.”
“Perfect.” Tristan pushed back from the conference table. “You have full access to my staff, my records, all of it. My assistant can schedule any meetings you need and pull you any documents. I don’t keep any of it secret.”
“Most of it,” Christian corrected him. “I’ll do what I can to keep you out of jail.”
Tristan gave him a thin smile, before returning to his own office.
He settled at his desk. Victoria’s name sat at the top of his email inbox, making him smile. The subject concerned him though.
It’s been my pleasure working with you.
He opened the message, which he was Bcc’d on.
To whom it may concern,
I apologize for the impersonal email. I wish I had the time to reach out to each of you individually.
I’ll no longer be your contact for donations. Please reach out to the main office for more information, effective immediately.
It’s been my pleasure to work with each and every one of you.
Sincerely,
Victoria Small
That didn’t sound good. Tristan dialed her office number. Her voicemail reflected an almost identical message.
So did her personal cellphone.
“It’s me,” he said when the chime sounded to leave a message. “We need to talk.”
He’d pick her up for dinner in a couple of hours. He’d find out what was up with her job, they’d discuss the fact that Christian kept bringing up prison sentences.
And he’d steal a few minutes of her time on a more personal level. Are you sure that’s a good idea? Conflict of interest and all that.
So? Just because it looked bad on the outside didn’t mean it was wrong.
Except that he and Victoria both understood that wasn’t true. What was on the surface was all that mattered to most people.
He was supposed to pick her up at seven. By the time five rolled around, with no return call from Victoria, he couldn’t wait any longer. He sent her a text that said coming over early, unless you tell me no.
He drove over there while he waited for her to reply. She hadn’t when he knocked on her apartment door.
The door cracked open enough to let him in, and she shut it again quickly.
“Hey.” She gave him a weak smile. She wore sweats and a baggy shirt, and her eyes were red-rimmed.
It cracked his heart, and he didn’t even have details. “What happened?” he asked.
She draped her arms over her shoulders, and kissed him hard. It startled him, but he reacted in an instant, moving his hands to her back and holding her close. Sinking into the desperation.
They broke apart and one of them gasped. Or maybe it was both of them. He traced a thumb over her cheek, and cupped the back of her neck, looking her in the eye. “Better?”
“Yes. No. For now. Not for long.” The waver in her voice gnawed deeper at his senses.
“What’s going on?”
She broke away and paced to the far end of the room before turning back toward him. “I’ve been temporarily suspended. Because I may or may not have had inappropriate relationships, but I understand how it looks, right?”
Of course that was what they told her. “We’ll figure it out.” Tristan had no idea how to make assurance
true.
“How?” Victoria stopped a few feet back. The distance felt insurmountable. “Are you going to whisk me away to your castle in the sky, and magically make this all better.”
“Sure. Because you’d be so happy being a princess in a tower. One that may not be mine depending on how things look to the IRS.”
Victoria closed her eyes and sighed. “Liquidation of assets?”
“And, as my attorney has pointed out several times, the potential for prison.” He tossed the words out flippantly, but they landed with a flat thunk.
She resumed her pacing. “I was assured at work that as long as I’m not up to anything that could look bad, that I don’t have anything to worry about. I assume that means not telling people about you and me.”
“I’m hearing the same message.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and hugged. “So what do we do?”
Tristan still didn’t know. The truth will set you free should be the right answer. So far, that wasn’t working for them.
He saw one solution, but ending this relationship was the last thing he wanted to do. There had to be another option.
VICTORIA SEARCHED TRISTAN’S eyes, looking for answers she hadn’t found anywhere else.
She actually didn’t mind the idea of being swept away to live in the castle in the clouds. As long as the commute wasn’t too bad.
She shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t be here. In this place where any public opinion mattered. Especially enough to have dire consequences in the rest of their lives. She’d left that behind years ago and promised herself she’d never go back.
Now people were picking apart who she’d slept with. Who fathered her child. Who she may or may not be seeing. And this time the consequences were far more severe than tabloids and gossip blogs.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Tristan said.
“You and me both.” She wanted to move closer. Sink into his embrace until the rest of the world stopped caring. Why wasn’t that a viable solution?
He reached a hand toward her, then let it fall by his side. “You’re thinking the same thing I am.”
“No.” She hadn’t been, until he said that. Then it popped into her head, distinct and glaring. “Are you kidding?” She forced a laugh. “Half the time we’re not on the same page.”
“Only when we don’t have the same information.” His frown deepened.
“I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I.”
End the relationship. Because despite the ups and downs, it was a relationship. Somewhere along the way, she stopped fighting the desire to fall for him, and let herself tumble into it instead.
“We can’t see each other anymore,” he said.
It was exactly what she expected to hear, but that didn’t mean she liked it. “This doesn’t just impact us.” She had to say the words aloud, to drive home the point to herself. “Your employees. The charity. The kids.”
“They didn’t do anything.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “Neither did we. There’s nothing we did that was wrong.”
“I know.” Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. “And it has to stop anyway.”
“We have to pretend it never started.”
“I can’t do that part.” His voice was thick with emotion.
She forced herself not to choke on grief swelling inside. “Me neither. Not in my head. But we know how to smile and wave to the proverbial cameras.”
“If there’s no relationship, there’s nothing to lie about if we’re questioned about conflict of interest.” Tristan moved closer.
She swallowed hard. “We don’t have to make anyone understand the ins and outs if there aren’t any.”
He reached for her again, but didn’t finish closing the distance to make contact. “So... I guess that’s it.”
“It’s over. We’re over. In fact, we never happened.” Saying it felt like razors slicing through her.
He stepped back. “Because it’s a lot easier to convince a judge or jury that building donation was genuine, if we aren’t—never were—a couple.”
She nodded. Words were gone. They both knew why they were doing this, and she was tired. Of dragging out details. Of living for someone else’s expectations. Of pretending Tristan didn’t matter.
“See you around, then.” He’d reached the door. “Or not.”
And then he was gone. No more fanfare and no goodbye kiss. Victoria sank into the nearest seat, and let the numbness wash over her.
It was the only way she could keep from falling apart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
TRISTAN’S MIND WAS in a fog when he showed up at Mischa’s.
Ash let him in. “Where’s Victoria?” she asked.
“Couldn’t make it. Probably not again. We decided it’s inappropriate for the two of us to be spending so much time together.” He struggled to keep the words casual and clinical.
She worked her jaw, but then shook her head and pointed to the living room. “I have to step out in an hour or so to pick up Kelly from a friend’s, but we’re all set up in the office.”
He nodded and followed her into the other room. Mischa had pulled a large whiteboard out, and secured it on one wall. It had Timeline written at the top.
Tristan wanted to be pleased they were doing things this way. It was a good idea. But he was still focused on Victoria.
Not a lot of words were exchanged, greeting-wise, before they dove into work. Every time someone forgot a detail in the timeline, even if it was him, Tristan snapped.
“Why are we doing this again?” Mischa’s tone implied he wasn’t impressed with Tristan’s attitude.
Tristan didn’t care. “You’re really asking me that?”
Ash ducked her head and focused her gaze on the laptop she held, but her frown said she was listening. She’d grown quieter as the minutes ticked away.
“I don’t mean looking for a solution, I mean the timeline. We’ve already been over this shit a dozen times,” Mischa said.
Tristan clenched and unclenched a fist. “And we’ll go over it again until we figure out where Wolfram got the impression we did our steps out of order.”
“Maybe he made it up.”
“That’s forgery. He’s a jackass, not a criminal.” Though maybe his word wouldn’t carry so much weight if the latter were true. It also still wouldn’t solve the problem.
“I have an idea.” Ash’s voice was tiny in the midst of the mounting tension. She waved Tristan over and pointed to her screen.
She had multiple reports and spreadsheets open, with different accounts and numbers on them. “See this here”—she pointed to one, then flipped to the next—“you transfer the funds over here.” She continued to tab through screens, explaining a series of complicated financial transactions.
He was stunned silent when she was done. Where the fuck did she learn to do that?”
“Will it work?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I mean, yes, if you can get away with it, it works. But, wow.” He’d never seen something like that before. It was half Ponzi-scheme, half income-tax evasion. A far more severe level than he was accused of. “It’s illegal in about ten different ways though.”
“No it’s not.” She frowned, and tabbed through her open files again. “I must have explained something wrong. Dad does it.”
“What?” The anger was gone from Mischa’s voice.
Tristan erased half the timeline from the whiteboard. “Show me.”
“I just did.” The confidence was gone from Ash’s voice.
“Show me what Ralph does. Where did you see this?”
She crossed the room, and grabbed a marker. “It’s been a while, so I might have some of this wrong. Keep in mind I was only sixteen last time I had access to any of his records.”
Exactly what Ralph had said. It didn’t matter. If she was capable of pulling this level of detail out of an eight year old memory, Tristan had a feeling she understood what
she’d seen.
“I want to look at it in one place. Use made-up numbers if it’s easier,” Tristan said.
He and Mischa watched as Ash repeated herself, drawing a series of numbers in a convoluted flow-chart.
She was patient as they interrupted her every few minutes with questions, until her arm fell limply to her side, and she stepped back.
“Oh.” Her voice was soft. “It really is illegal, isn’t it?”
“Ralph Wolfram runs his accounts this way?” Mischa sounded stunned.
She nodded. “I mean, maybe he’s changed things around since then.”
“Was he ever caught?” Tristan asked.
“Do you think you’d have to wonder, if he had been?” She looked at him, eyes wide. “I know where to find all of this information. This is huge right? Like, the kind of consequences you’re being threatened with?”
It was bigger than that. This was investment fraud and more. “It doesn’t help me any, but it’s not good for him.”
“Does it make him less credible?” Hope crept into Ash’s voice. “Because I’m willing to go on record with any of this.”
Tristan hoped he never pissed his child off to the point where her eyes shone with glee at the thought of putting him behind bars. He had a hard time imagining getting mad at his baby for even doing something like violating curfew though.
And that was a dangerous tangent, because it led back to the life he didn’t have. “You’re not talking about custody battles and threats that don’t play out,” he said. “You’re talking about sending your father to jail.”
Her smile was a twisted kind of bitter he’d never seen on Ash before. It was a little terrifying. “My father is involved in something that will cost dozens of people their jobs, and shut down a fucking charity. Because he’s throwing a temper tantrum.”
Mischa wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. “Not that it would come to this, but if you had to sit in front of a jury, or even a room full of legal counsel, and look him in the eye and say these things, could you?”
Hard Pack (Ridden Hard Book 2) Page 17
