Adam was sleeping in the bedroom, a slumbering bulk of his tough body at peace. At least she hoped he wasn’t troubled in his dreams, the very reason why she decided to slink out of the cabin with him unaware.
After his unusually somber mood as they waited for the sandman last night, she suspected he would be moody, sullen at her departure for Concord, rather than his usual chipper, humorous self.
Vulnerable. It was a label she’d never think to slap on him, but the night before, he’d spoken of his fears, his worries. While it was reassuring to look upon him as more human, less superhero, she accepted his flaws and wanted to comfort him—and it made her feel a little less alone in the world.
Even Adam, the guy she’d worshipped on a pedestal in her youth, struggled with his demons. She wasn’t such an outlier for dreading the future after all. And between the two of them, she was convinced they could hasten their progress to happiness together. She’d stand by his decision, whether to stay or go, as long as she had a role in his life. Friend. Lover. Long distance or local, because she couldn’t burden him with guilt if he chose to deploy. He had to make himself happy before he could worry about her needs or anyone else’s. She wasn’t depreciating herself, but respecting his desires as only a true love can. With freedom.
It was the only way she justified leaving Jake and Marta when she’d fled. She couldn’t prioritize them wanting her to be near over her own sanity.
Sammy’s immediate wish was for him to stay, far from any danger, but that chain of thoughts struck her as selfish. Inside of analyzing his life in the confines of her head, she made a goal to discuss the future—their future—when she returned. Before he could sex her up and distract her, they’d have a rational conversation.
She left with a note on the kitchen table, instead of starting her already promised-to-be-difficult day with extra worrying about him and how she could placate his vulnerability. He’d helped her heal and overcome her past, and she had no hesitations to assist him with his troubles. Adam hadn’t become her responsibility just because they’d slept together. Since he claimed her heart, she couldn’t help but want to see him happy. But today was for Clare. Today was for marching right up to Edgar and ensuring the old man wouldn’t jeopardize her plans for taking care of Clare.
See you soon. Short and sweet. She signed it with a heart and her name. He might have said the L-word, but until she could gauge whether he’d meant it in a casual, jovial manner, she was too gun-shy to reveal her own love for him.
Maybe when she returned, she thought as she lightly patted her thigh, calling Ink to follow her to the car. Perhaps when she came back to the cabin after resolving her business with Edgar, they could talk more and she could offer him her shoulder to lean if he wanted, and just maybe, she could tell him how much he meant to her before she began another cross-country drive to take her back to Clare.
Resolution, whether positive or negative, was much hoped for as she closed the distance between Lincoln and Concord. Knowing she’d come this far, the confirmation she could have the determination to face Edgar and fight for her trust fund, signaled mighty achievements in her book.
Clare. You’re doing this for Clare.
Her friend was still in the dark about why Sammy had decided to travel to Concord, and if Sammy had any power over it, she’d never know. Somehow, she could funnel the money into Clare’s accounts, leaving her none the wiser of the “charity” she would otherwise refuse to accept.
Three hours through dawn brought Sammy near LifeCorp’s headquarters. Passing familiar buildings and landscapes she’d grown up by, she forced herself to drive with blinders almost, resisting the urge to slow down her speed and check out what had changed since her departure. If structures had been torn down and renovated. Which businesses might have expanded or closed. Curiosity, the source of her ceaseless people-watching and infallible sightseeing—no matter where she was—was shoved to the backburner of her mind. Observations had no room in her thoughts at that moment.
Focusing on reaching the skyscraper required her central concentration. Because if Concord had evolved and changed in her absence, it didn’t matter. She’d changed, irrespective of her surroundings.
Parked in the visitors’ lot of LifeCorp’s property, Sammy shut off the car and stared at the entrance. Walk in, demand to know what game she had to play to keep her trust fund, and exit. In and out. No emotions. No drama. God knew she’d had enough of a soap opera existence to last a lifetime.
In theory, it wasn’t complicated. Two people discussing a legal, financial binding. No different than when the bursar explained tuition payments for her semesters at Las Positas, or when Sammy bartered with her landlord, explaining she would take over and see to Clare’s rent bills while she was in the hospital. And here, she and Edgar would simply speak about why he was attempting to make it harder for her to obtain her trust fund.
Only… Not.
She thumped the back of her head to the driver’s seat headrest. She and Edgar were not a pair of adults in the plainest sense. Sammy was the black sheep, the troublesome offspring who had always failed to meet expectations and pose as the prim, prissy princess she was obligated to portray—her hair always showing a fray, her dirty knees from playing outside attesting to her grubbiness, her fascination of paint and colors proving she lacked a methodical, pompous intellect appraised by test scores and regurgitated factoids.
And Edgar… Since childhood, Sammy had feared him, never bonded to the lord of her family. No kid would have warmed to the man who never smiled, never expressed any emotion.
She’d never set out to dislike her parents or her grandfather. As a dependent, she’d naturally craved affection from someone other than her brother and housekeeper, just as any young girl would.
But from a too-early stage of her life, she’d understood the Millsons’ equation. Her parents had done their duty, procreated to ensure pureblood heirs to pass their millions onto. Without the foundation of any parental affection, adoration, or even mild tolerance of her and Jake, Sammy learned she was not a daughter to them, but a protégé, whether she wanted to be or not. As a Millson, duty called. And by leaving without permission, she’d bunked history. Severely.
So how would she be received in Edgar’s office? She cracked her knuckles, eyeing the front door to the lobby.
Like a stain on his doorstep.
“Here goes, baby girl,” she whispered to Ink. The Chorkie cocked her head at Sammy. Cracking the windows down more and double-checking Ink’s water bowl was upright and filled on the floor, she cringed at cooping the canine in the car. Should have left her with Adam. Then again, she didn’t want to mooch and treat him like a dog-sitter.
Swiping a last-minute coat of deodorant onto her pits, Sammy shrugged out of her gray hoodie and exited the car. That was the extent of preparation she’d care for to face Edgar, because no matter what she did, she’d never impress him.
In a Rolling Stones tank top, some splatters of yellow and ecru paint near the hem, and a pair of denim cutoffs, she nodded to herself, pleased enough with her attire. Aviator glasses shielding her eyes, hair mostly in a ponytail, and leather sandals under her feet, she was as good as she’d get.
In the lobby, the pantsuited receptionist greeted her with a saccharine and insincere welcome, asking her to wait a moment for her to speak to Edgar’s office as Sammy had no appointment.
She’d tried to secure a slot in Edgar’s timetable, and she wasn’t about to be put off again while she was in the damn building.
Not waiting for a reply, Sammy slunk off to the elevators and hit the button for the top floor. So early in the morning, there were few others in the lobby, and no one at all in the elevator. Tuning out the receptionist’s demands—first to her, to wait, and secondly to security, to follow her—Sammy tapped her foot as the doors slid shut before shooting her up to Edgar’s domain.
Momentum—that was the drug she needed to coast on to make it to the top.
Setting foot
on the beige carpet, so plush a newborn could nap on it, she continued on, past the confused stares of Edgar’s executive early-bird minions, all likely startled by her arrival.
At the double glass-fronted doors of Edgar’s office, Sammy zeroed in on the doorknobs until they were blocked by a pudgy, suited man’s midsection.
“Samantha?”
She acknowledged Edgar’s closest personal assistant, the meek, people-pleasing puppet her grandfather had employed since she was a toddler.
Martin. Marcus. Murphy. M-something.
“I’m here to see Edgar.” She stood right in his face, hoping her glare would be some ammunition against his inevitable refusal.
“I suggest you make an appointment,” he said, frowning. “Mr. Millson is extremely busy—”
“No doubt.” Sammy crossed her arms. “Is he taking a dump in the toilet in there?”
Assistant M’s mouth dropped open. “I’m not—”
“Is he fucking a hooker? Having a heart attack? No?”
“Miss Millson—”
“Then there is no physically restrictive reason he can’t see me for a minute.” She reached for the doorknob, yanked on it, and stormed in.
Her chest heaved from the adrenaline rush of talking back to the assistant, pleased that at least the shock factor worked on him. Easy, Samsy, easy. Less on the pissy teenager act and more on the mature adult style.
Edgar stood at the side of his desk, a behemoth of some polished tropical wood, probably the last tree of a rare species that housed an invertebrate holding the cure to some specific disease.
“Mr. Millson, I apologize…” The blabbering assistant’s voice spoke from behind Sammy’s left, the faithful guard dog following to serve his master at her unspeakable intrusion.
Edgar’s hand lifted in a dismissal. A moment later, a barely audible click signified Sammy was alone in the luxurious office suite with the god of insurance.
Erasing memories of Edgar and all the ugliest reminders of Concord hadn’t eradicated the deep-seated unease he never failed to inflict on her.
He hadn’t aged a day. By the power of some anti-aging elixir or taking Botox intravenously, Edgar was the exact same stoic gargoyle Sammy remembered from before. Not one additional line creased his face, the baggage of his less-than-elastic skin still immune to accumulating years and gravity.
“Samantha,” he said. “What a surprise.”
As in, “ah-ha”? Or, “I never expected you”?
Ice carvings were capable of more sentiment than him.
“Is it, really?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, the only sign of defense she’d allow herself. As he stuck one hand in his pocket and leaned against the edge of his desk, Sammy vowed to remain on the offensive. “You sent me a letter, your lawyer did, about changes being made to the trust fund I’m entitled to upon graduation.”
There. Firm. Direct. To the point.
“Of course. Coming back for easy money. What else would have sent you running home?”
We’re just two adults talking business. No drama. No anger. It won’t help.
She had no reason to feel inferior to him. He put his pants on the same as any other person.
Or, he has a couple goblin slaves to dress him to save himself the indignity of such a lowly task.
Gritting her teeth, she inhaled deeply. “Right. Poor little me. You dangled the carrot, and here I am.”
“Not so fun being on your own, is it?”
Actually, it was better than she ever could have imagined. Because while he might not be able to compute a life without wealth, she was living her life to the fullest, without dollar signs shining from her pupils.
“I’m having a blast.”
“Must be invigorating, begging for finances.”
She licked her lips, refusing to be baited. Devious, manipulative, scheming asshole. She was still his grandchild, and this was the way he wished to speak to her? Like she was a speck of dirt soiling his floor? “I have to say I’m surprised too. It’s no secret you didn’t hesitate to sever all other ties to me. Why even keep this trust fund active for your horrible, disowned beggar?”
“Seems you might serve a purpose, after all.”
Her blood chilled. A purpose? No. She refused to be obligated to him, her parents, all the damn rules and expectations. She would never be his fucking puppet again. She’s said as much when she left the damn college she was forced to attend. “What are the amended criteria for this trust fund?” She’d be damned if he wouldn’t tell her, but she dreaded to hear what he planned to demand of her.
“Your current contract with FoxTrodden grants them exclusive publishing rights to three more books of your series. After which, you would be eligible for seeking new representation, or renewal.”
Blinking a couple times, Sammy struggled to remain just as masked in indifference as he was a pro at. He knew? He knew about the Landy series? That she really wasn’t destitute, but still tried to demean her as such? Snarky asshole.
S.A.M. She hadn’t really cared to use a pseudonym for her illustrator identity, an accident really, by the nonstop initials she’d been required on forms and such. An acronym of her real name. It wasn’t as though she’d attempted some alternative image for herself. She supposed he could have found out about her and Clare’s books. He had thousands of employees at his beck and call, billions of dollars to dispense. Of course he could have found out about her budding career.
But to know the terms of her contract? That was an invasion of privacy she couldn’t dismiss easily.
“Correct. That is what my partner and I have signed.”
“You terminate your contract, sign with another, newer publishing house, and the trust fund is yours per the original stipulations.”
Blackmail. He was blackmailing her? “Which publishing house?” Not that she was considering. FoxTrodden was one of the big six, the big guns at the top. To end that connection… It would be suicide in the book business.
“Den and Sons is merging their children’s literature with Golden to form a selective partnership.”
Two other important names of the exclusive Big Six club of publishing companies. “And what’s it to you where I publish my series?”
“I have significant investments in the success of this merger.”
Of course. Money. The kryptonite he needed for sustenance. In other words, he wanted to use her for nothing more than to stuff his personal coffers so he could gloat and bask in the cold company of riches he’d never need or use in his lifetime.
Her phone buzzed from her back pocket. Distracted, she dismissed the alert.
Rolling with the news of this competitive ploy, Sammy’s lungs raced to push enough air through her nose. Never mind the fact he shouldn’t even be approaching her about this. As an interested sponsor, owner, whatever, he should have had the professionalism to go through the proper ranks of agents and representatives to discuss this. Additionally, she wasn’t in autocratic control of the Landy products—Clare was her partner, the other half of the say-so of their business.
But still… What could it matter if Landy was published with one highly reputable company versus another? It couldn’t affect the integrity of the books. And if Sammy could roll over and play along, she’d get the money to help keep Clare happily at home, forgetting the possibility of hell in a nursing home.
At what cost, though? To pander to this asshole’s shenanigans? To empower him even more? Too little trust existed between her and the family she’d come to loathe. How much would she have to question everything, worry about the survival of her books? Signing to a company under Edgar’s control… The loopholes he could screw her with were endless.
“Perfect timing.” Edgar stood, holding out a hand toward whoever had opened the door behind her. “Here is my associate, just the man I’ve delegated to manage the details of this merger. He can explain much more of what’s required of you at this stage. He’s been thoroughly helpful since we embarked on
this merger two years ago—he even used it as his dissertation project for his doctoral portfolio.”
Given she could be so idiotic to believe a word he said, so stupid to consider handing her career to him.
“Samantha Millson. Pleasure to meet you.”
She stiffened at the newcomer’s voice as she turned to face him.
Back then, he slurred his words in a beer-thickened drawl, effusing false charm. At the frat party, he’d worn a white polo—to be covered in her vomit—and khakis he’d been so ready to unzip in the face of her vulnerability.
Now, as she froze, her heart hammering too fast, her lungs working like a locomotive gearing up to reach Mach Six, he disguised his true self. With a practiced, careful enunciation, and donning an impeccable suit, he smiled at her, extending his hand for her to shake.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
She stared at his hand, the same one that had guided her outside, ripped her blouse…
“Impossible,” Edgar said. “She did attend your alma mater, but apparently Dartmouth didn’t meet her expectations. Dropped out not even two months in.”
Edgar continued speaking, but his introduction and monotone words faded into a haze of humming fury in her head.
Acid once again rose in her throat as she relived the horror of the last time she’d seen this guy. How he’d singled her out to flirt with at the party she hadn’t originally planned to attend, when there was already a stunning blonde hitting on him. How he’d asked her name, a hint of odd amusement when she’d told him her surname.
He’d been working for Edgar back then? Known who she was, or at least the wealth she came from?
She slid her attention to Edgar, the money-worshipper still explaining nothing she could care about. Did he… Did he know? Did her grandfather know what this asshole had done to her?
Back at the party, the jerk never gave his name. If she hadn’t been so traumatized to report the incident, she hadn’t even been equipped with the knowledge of whom to point to. But somehow, he’d seemed to identify her immediately, perhaps because he’d known her through Edgar.
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