At Mr. Cartwright's Command

by Ash, Ingrid

  “Hello Ms. Pierce. Let's go for a spin,” says Walt with a coy grin.

  My heart nearly stops. “What... how...?”

  Oh, that's right. He is Mr. Cartwright. Mr. Cartwright Senior. Clever.

  Before I can appropriately react the door slams behind me. My eyes dart between him and the window. What the hell was I thinking just jumping in the limo like this? It's a choice I instantly regret and I start to wonder if Walt is actually dangerous.

  It only takes a few seconds before the car starts rocking as it pulls into traffic. Walt is chuckling, seemingly self-assured about something; I'm not sure exactly what.

  “Are you going to kill me?” I ask tentatively.

  He laughs a little too hard at that, his round stomach jiggling underneath his too-tight double breasted sports coat. “Just what kind of man do you think I am?”

  “I don't think you want me to answer that.”

  He chuckles some more. He sure is jovial right now, but why? “I enjoyed the little blurb about you and my son in the society column today.”

  I study his eyes for a moment. “You planted that, didn't you?”

  “Now why would you think that?” he asks, sinking back against the leather seats.

  “Because you want the wedding called off. You're trying to stop Mr. Cartwright from getting his trust.”

  “And exactly why would I want that? That trust isn't my money, it was his mother's,” he says.

  My brows furrow and I ask, “Mr. Cartwright never mentioned her.”

  “Hmm, that's probably because she's dead,” he says crassly. Mr. Cartwright never mentioned that either. “You see, my son might project a certain air that grubby little gold diggers like you fall for easily, but he doesn't own one single thing that's actually his. Not his inheritance, not his money, not that fancy house of his upstate or the even fancier one across the pond. Those all belong to me, and I intend to keep them that way.”

  If anyone is a bigger jerk than Mr. Cartwright it's his father. At this point, I don't even take his insults seriously. But I do notice he leaves out one important property of Mr. Cartwright's. “And what about the penthouse?”

  He pauses, his arrogant demeanor cracking just slightly. “Penthouse?”

  I resist the urge to laugh—I guess Mr. Cartwright does have something of his own. “Oh, nothing.”

  He studies me for a moment. “I don't know what kind of games you're playing, Ms. Pierce, but you aren't going to ruin my family legacy with it.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Well then you'd be happy to know that I dumped him. Again,” I say with plenty of disdain.

  “I'm not surprised; my son has never been terribly smart. And you seem to have some sort of weird hold on him that I just can't figure out.”

  “Did you bring me here just to insult me?”

  “No, that's not the only reason,” he says. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his smart phone, complete with a stylus. He doesn't take his eyes off it as he speaks. “Let's play a little game. The name of the game is called, how much does it cost to keep you away from my son for good? And by 'for good', I mean forever. I'm going to let you pick a number, if it's reasonable, it'll go straight to your bank account today.” He looks up at me and continues. “Shall we begin?”

  I shake my head. “I don't want your money. I'm not some charity case.”

  “Indeed, you're not. This isn't charity, it's a business deal. Not that you have particularly solid business skills considering the fact that you can't even hold down a minimum wage job.”

  I'm instantly defensive. Minimum wage? I made more than minimum wage at the flower shop and—wait, how does he know I got fired?

  “You don't even have a job, you're already living in a dump, and you're refusing money. You think it makes you noble but all it makes you is pathetic,” he continues. I swear, this asshole makes me want to stab things.

  “I don't want your money,” I repeat, emphasizing each vowel. “So are we done here?”

  “No, we're not. You aren't thinking straight, Tamara. You're always so worried about pride, and what exactly do you have to be proud of?”

  I'm at a loss for words.

  “Go ahead and answer me. What do you have to be proud of, Tamara?” he asks, scanning me from head to toe. “Your mother was a junkie, your father is non-existent, you have no education, no job, and no money. What do you have to be proud of?”

  “Go fuck yourself.” Oh look, I found some.

  He laughs. “There she is. There's that little spitfire. Now name a number and we can end this.”

  “Pull over and let me out.”

  “No, this is New York traffic, sweetheart. Even just once around the block is going to take a while.”

  “You can't keep me here against my will. I'll go straight to the police and tell them you tried to kidnap me.”

  “I'd love to see you try. I'd love to see how they react when you tell them one of the richest men in the city attempted to abduct you and give you money.”

  I don't condone murder, but I've never wanted to wring someone's neck as much as I have Walt's. And that's saying a lot.

  “You're trying my patience. Name your price.”

  “I don't want your fucking money!” I shout.

  “You see, that, my dear, is why you will always be poor. You will always be broke and you'll end up right back on the streets where you belong, because you don't know how to do what it takes to pull yourself out of that little hole you're in,” he says. “Name your damn price, Tamara.”

  “Ten million dollars,” I throw out arbitrarily.

  “You're losing.”

  “Should we make it twenty?” I reply sarcastically.

  “You need to take this seriously. What you say next is going to determine your future. Which door are you going to choose?”

  The car bumps and hums beneath us. He's an ass, but he isn't wrong. The devil on my shoulder tells me to take him for all that he's got—it's not like he needs the money and he'll probably just use it for evil any ways. Is it really worth going back to the streets, just for my pride?

  But what about my dignity?

  “One hundred thousand dollars,” I announce. My voice is small and defeated. I feel like I'm selling a part of my soul the second the words leave my mouth.

  “Now that's more like it,” he says as he turns back towards his phone. “However, you short changed yourself a bit. So let's make it two for good measure.”

  Two hundred thousand dollars? I'm not even sure how much money that is. My brain can hardly process the number. I remember a time when just $200 was a goldmine to me.

  I sit in disbelief and watch him punch a few numbers into his phone. Surely this is some kind of trick. I'll get home and find my back account to be the same, if not less than it was before.

  “Done,” he says, closing the case and stuffing his phone back into his pocket. It can't be that easy, can it?

  “Now this comes with a few simple conditions. You leave the state until after the wedding. Take a vacation or a trip somewhere—God knows you've never done anything like that in your life. Hell, leave the country, you could use it. And if you come back, don't so much as think about my son.”

  “I can do that.”

  “You better, because if you don't, I'll have that charge reversed in an instant. And if you've spent a portion of it by then that will put you in some deep shit.”

  I nod slowly as I listen to him. I should feel good and I should feel free, but I actually feel like absolute shit. Not because I have to stay away from Mr. Cartwright—that I had planned to do anyway. But taking this blood money makes me feel like I'm validating what a horrible person he is.

  “Can I go now?” I ask.

  “Sure. I'll have the driver pull right back up at your door.”

  “That's quite alright, I'm sure I can walk.”

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, tapping on the divider.

  The car instantly slows and I pulls up
to the curb. As soon as it's at a full stop I reach for the door.

  “Don't forget, out of town, ASAP,” he says.

  Like I could ever forget that. I push the door open and exit on to the street. But then I pause for a second and peep my head back inside the car.

  “One more thing,” I say to him.

  He looks up at me. “What would that be?”

  “Mr. Cartwright's first name. I want to know what it is.”

  He looks amused, and well, I don't blame him. “It's Owen.”

  CHAPTER 18

  MR. CARTWRIGHT

  “I'm afraid Mr. Cartwright is out of the office right now, sir. Would you like me to take a message for him?”

  I scoff. “When will he return?”

  “I'm not sure. He said he had an errand to run and didn't give us any further information. Would you like me to jot down a message for him?”

  As soon as my father is dead and I inherit this business, this useless secretary of his will be the first thing to go.

  I lean down towards her, hovering over her desk. She looks slightly intimidated, as she should. “Do you know who I am?” I hiss.

  “Yes.”

  “I'm not quite sure you do. I'm his son.”

  “Yes, I'm aware. He told us not to let you into his office under any circumstances.”Why am I not surprised? I put on a fake smile and reply, “Wonderful. I'll wait for my father in his office.”

  I move away from the desk and I see the secretary stand up from the side of my eye. “I can't let you do that!” she calls out to me as I carelessly push through the heavy metal doors. I'd love to see her try and stop me.

  This particular office of his I haven't been in since he remodeled it almost a decade ago. I have to admit, it looks good. One wall sports his logo, the other a portrait of himself. In between sits a wide, floor-to-ceiling window with a panoramic view of the city, situated right behind his desk.

  It's no surprise that his desk is devoid of any photos of his family, yet there's a giant one of himself hanging on the wall. That pretty much sums up my father.

  I hear the door creak behind me and I fully expect it to be that meddling secretary. I'm quite surprised when I hear my father's voice instead.

  “Who let you in here?” he asks as he enters.

  “It sure as hell wasn't Stacey, she tried her hardest to keep me out.”

  “Well, good on her,” he says as he walks around me. He looks me up and down and says, “You look like shit.”

  “I suppose I am my father's son.”

  He moves behind the desk. “What do you want? Some of us have to work for a living, you know.”

  My voice grows darker. “I want to know why you fucking leaked those photos of Tamara to the press.”

  His face lights up. He's grinning from ear to ear as he kicks back in his chair, placing his heels on the edge of his desk.

  “I heard your little mistress is out of a job right now. I guess she has you to thank for that.”

  “You're lying.”

  “Try me. Go ahead and call the flower shop. Ask for her and see what happens.”

  My eyes narrow. “This is your fault!” I shout, slamming my fists against his desk.

  “Awe, don't worry her. She'll be well taken care of. In fact, I just got back from a little business meeting with her.”

  “What?”

  “Did I stutter, son?”

  “If you hurt Tamara I'll fucking kill you.”

  He waves a hand at me. “Hurt? No, you do enough of that on your own,” he says. I feel my face burn with anger. “Like I said, I took care of her. I presented her with an offer she couldn't refuse. And she didn't.”

  My whole face contorts. “What did you do to her?”

  “I didn’t do anything to her, I did something for her. I offered her money and, let's just say, everyone has a price.”

  “Money for what?” I asked curiously.

  “Money to stay away from you, my dear son. So depending on how you look at it, this could really be seen as a present to both of you.”

  I start to chuckle. “You foolish old man,” I say.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asks.

  “You’re foolish because you wasted your money. She and I were done. She ended it,” I explain bitterly.

  “And that's the sad part about this whole situation. But let's be real here, that wouldn't have stopped you from trying to get her back. But now she has an incentive to stay far, far away from you.”

  I shake my head. “Tamara wouldn't take your money.”

  “Oh, but she did. She took yours, didn't she? I guess technically that means she's always been taking my money, but you get the point.” He ends his sentence with an arrogant smile. I'd love to smack the smile right off his smug face. “I guess she really is done with you for good,” he adds with a snicker.

  My eyes narrow and I sneer at him, but he only seems to get a kick out of my anger. The sick bastard. I stand up straight and smooth my blazer out with my hands. “You can consider your invitation to the wedding revoked.”

  He cocks his head and says, “Awe, and here I was hoping to walk my only daughter down the aisle.”

  “You're going to die alone, you know that right?”

  His eyes flutter. “You should be thanking me, but as usual you're nothing but an ungrateful twat. I saved your marriage and your inheritance after your little fiance tried to sabotage both.”

  My eyes grow wide as I stare him down.

  “It wasn't hard to figure out who planted that photo. Wake up! Your fiance is keeping tabs on you. She was waiting for you to screw up so she could hold it over your head.”

  Veronica. Fucking Veronica. I suppose that does make even more sense than Walt.

  “Goodbye, Father,” I say to him as I turn and head for the door.

  “Goodbye, Son. And don't set foot in this office again.”

  CHAPTER 19

  TAMARA

  I stare down at my cellphone, as I've been doing for the past two hours. It's opened to an app I downloaded back when I started working that lets me manage my bank account remotely. I almost deleted it after I quit and now I'm wishing I had, because staring at my six digit balance isn't particularly productive.

  Walt might be a snake but he's a man of his word. He promised me $200,000, and there it is, sitting in my bank account. I can barely believe it –in fact, In not sure if I do. I've never had more than a few hundred dollars to my name at any time. And even then, it always evaporated quickly and dwindle down to zero in no time. So maybe that's why I keep staring at the numbers—I'm expecting them to disappear, but for some reason they don't.

  My short-term instincts scream at me to spend it and spend it quick before it magically disappears like money always seems to do, but I can't bring myself to do so. For one thing, if he changed his mind and took the money back after a wild spending spree I'd end up in an even bigger rut than I am now. I could end up owing thousands or hell, I could even end up in jail and that would be worse than being on the street.

  But it's the guilt of spending it that weighs the heaviest on me. Even though I have more money than I ever imagined, keeping it and spending it would be like telling Walt he won. It would validate all of his nastiness. I've always despised people like him—the ones who use their money to control and to keep the little man down so they can keep feeding their fat pockets. So how am I any better if I'm part of that?

  So for the next few days I lay low. As wrong as it is for me to keep the money, the last thing I want is for Walt to know that I'm still in town and take it all back. So technically, I do what he says, packing up my bare necessities and hauling myself out of town, to a tiny motel in a not so safe Jersey location. Could I afford better? Easily. But I don't have the luxury of being frivolous when I know the money won't last for long.

  My life for the last handful of days has been anything but thrilling. Most people dream of not having to work, but for me, working was a privilege. I enjoyed doing some
thing productive with my time, especially since I was investing in my own well being. Besides, it wasn't like I had anything or anyone to go home to.

  Now, I wake up, I eat breakfast, I go for a run, I eat lunch, I do a few chores or wash clothing, I eat dinner, I watch some mindless television, and I go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. I consider buying a laptop or at least a tablet, they're only a couple hundred dollars anyway, but I can't bring myself to do so.

  I start going to the library frequently and using their computers to research. Walt told me to take a trip and leave the country, which is something I never considered. I was always so worried about finding a roof to live under that I never considered what life was like outside of the US, and the idea of taking some sort of luxury vacation was just ludicrous. Against my better judgment I look up a few travel blogs by female solo travelers and even do a few searches on travel websites to see what the prices would be. Plenty of locations, especially islands, would be considered affordable for the average middle-classer. And it's not like a couple thousand would put a real dent on my bank account right now. But the thought of throwing that kind of money around nearly gives me the hives.

  I sit back and sigh. My eyes travel across the screen to the red and blue banner for some for-profit school with the words .edu scrawled over it. Looking into schools is the one thing I've been putting off, for whatever reason. How do you decide what you want to do with your life when you have no idea what you're good at? I'm so far from knowing where to start.

  *

  The next day I awake to the sound of my cellphone buzzing against the wooden nightstand next to the bed. I become tangled up in sheets as I twist my body to reach out for it. Who is texting me anyway? The only ones who ever text me were Melissa and Connor, and I know it's not either of them.

  There's just a number that shows up on my screen—no name, so it isn't someone in my contacts. I click it curiously and read the message.

  JERSEY ISNT FAR ENOUGH

  LEAVE THE COAST

  OR THE COUNTRY.