The Billionaire's Mistake

by Ava Claire

  “What time will they be arriving?”

  I took a hearty gulp of wine. It was barely 5 pm, but if I was gonna make it through this, I’d need all the help I could get. “They?”

  Her eyes became navy slits. “They. As in, the nanny and Hope? As much as I truly enjoy your company, I certainly didn’t make the trek to the city to catch up with you. I was under the impression that I’d got to see my granddaughter.”

  I dropped my hands to my lap, wishing I still had that stress ball. Only Alicia Whitmore could insult and ask you for a favor in the same breath.

  “Alicia, we appreciate all the gifts you’ve sent Hope. And the visits-” I paused, adjusting in my seat. “While they end with one or all of us storming out, they are good while they last.” I met her steely glare. “I want Hope to know both of her grandmothers.” I left out ‘even if one of those grandmothers is a sociopath’. “We just aren’t comfortable-” I stopped mid-sentence since the nerve beneath her eye was ticking. I didn’t know how to tell her that Jacob and I had an agreement—she could visit with Hope, but only in our home, and only if both parents were present.

  Motherhood was turning me into a sap. I wanted to rip the bandaid off, remind her of all the awful things she’d done—to Jacob, to me, to people she claimed to love—but when it came down to it, I hesitated. She hadn’t done a thing to make amends, but the mom in me felt for her. I couldn’t imagine a world where my child would want nothing to do with me. To be a grandmother, but unable to watch my grandchild without supervision. “You need to give us some time.”

  Her lips curled into a snarl. “I beg your pardon? Hope is a year old. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her-”

  “Seeing her at all, after everything, is a privilege...not a right.” I raised my chin. Any goodwill, any dwindling sympathy, evaporated.

  “Our definitions of privilege differ. I don’t feel privileged to have to go through a committee to even see her. Then I have to cross my fingers, hoping the odds are in my favor if I want to pick her up. Hold her. Spend some time with her without her parents hovering like I’m a sex offender. I’m not a murderer-”

  “That we know of.” I knew I wasn’t being helpful, but it just rolled off my tongue.

  Alicia snatched her hand to her chest, anger flaring in her cheeks. In her eyes. “Well, you tricked me into this little lunch, but I’m not going to sit here and be insulted.”

  She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, despite the fact that we hadn’t ordered yet. I had half a mind to let her have her little temper tantrum, enjoy my glass of wine, then go home and cuddle with my little girl, but I pulled out my phone instead. My photo and video library was filled with more adorable shots of Hope than I could count, so I just went with a video I shot this morning before work.

  The minute she heard Hope’s signature squeal, Alicia stopped gathering her things. She went utterly still, like an electric jolt was coursing through her. Love flashed across her face like a thunderclap.

  I didn’t say a word, handing her my phone. She cradled it like it was something fragile, her eyes falling to the screen.

  Since the only audio consisted of squeals and baby babble, I narrated the happenings since I’d watched it at least six times since I recorded it. “Jacob made her scrambled eggs, which is her favorite, as you can see from the fact that she’s covered in it.”

  “Jacob cooked?” Alicia glanced up at me, her eyes colored with shock.

  I saddled her with a look. I knew that Alicia could probably count the times she’s cooked on one hand, too. ‘That’s what servants are for’ was essentially her motto. “Well, we don’t have a chef on hand. We do most of our own cooking.” And by ‘we’ I meant my husband because I would have fed Hope scrambled eggs with a sprinkle of egg shells.

  “I’m well aware of your distaste for employing help, Leila.” She replayed the video, a smile drifting across her lips.

  My heart twinged when I realized that her shock wasn’t because we were doing what poor people do, cooking and cleaning all by ourselves.

  She had no idea that her son could cook.

  I thought back to all the meals he made for me, the meals he made for Hope, and the joy that radiated from him. That radiated in every bite.

  I felt sorry for Alicia all over again.

  She didn’t know her son...and at this rate, she wouldn’t know her granddaughter, either.

  The waiter returned, an older man who made the mistake of spilling a drop of wine on the tablecloth when he poured Alicia’s glass earlier. She pointed out the stain he left and the poor man looked like he was going to cry, quit, or possibly be arrested when he poured the entire bottle on her lap.

  He cautiously turned to Alicia, brandishing the wine bottle. “Another glass, ma’am?”

  “So you can embarrass yourself again? No thank you.”

  “Alicia!” My eyes bulged before I turned to the man, ready to apologize because it would be a cold day in hell before she said those two words.

  “Embarrass myself?” the man repeated slowly.

  Alicia tapped the screen to pause the video. “I don’t believe I stuttered.” When she raised her eyes, I wished that she didn’t. They were filled with malice as she gave him a vicious once over. “Based on looks alone, you’ve either been doing this a long time or you’ve only recently entered the prestigious field of customer service. At any rate, pouring liquid into a glass without spilling it is the only thing that is required of you, and yet—that proved too difficult.”

  The man looked stunned.

  I was stunned. I shouldn’t have been though, since Alicia made no secret of how little she respected people who worked in the service industry. But I still couldn’t reconcile this cold woman with the woman who was just cooing over Hope’s video.

  Alicia let us both know she was done with the conversation, picking up the video where she left off. The man looked like a deer in headlights, the whites of his eyes gleaming like the top of his bald head.

  Anger whipped in my gut like a python I wanted to feed my mother-in-law to, but I found my voice. “I apologize for her rude behavior.” I pushed my glass towards him. “I’d love one more glass of wine, thank you.” And I’m gonna need it, along with one hell of a prayer if I’m gonna make it to the appetizer.

  He poured my wine and didn’t spill a drop before he hustled away, avoiding eye contact.

  “Why do you do that?” I asked vehemently. “Does it make you feel better about yourself if you make other people feel like they’re less than you?”

  Alicia lifted the phone to her face. “She looks just like Jacob when he was that age. He was such a beautiful child. Well-” She brought it in for a closer look, her mouth dipping into a frown. “Minus that curly hair. And she clearly has her mother’s mouth.”

  I almost brought my hand to my mouth, blushing. Angry that the question that flitted through my head was, What’s wrong with my mouth?.

  The moment of self consciousness only lasted a split second before I snatched my phone from her talon-like grip.

  Alicia didn’t look remotely miffed. “I hope you’re not teaching my granddaughter your bad habits.”

  “And what bad habits do you plan to teach her? How to treat people like shit if they don’t make as much money as you? How to take advantage of people? How to take the blessings in her life for granted? How to become such a good liar that you convince yourself that you’re still a decent human being, when you actually sold your soul to the devil for a fancy house that you live in all by yourself?”

  Naturally, Alicia’s comments didn’t draw a single eye, but I felt like every person in the restaurant was scowling at me. One of these things did not belong, and it was me.

  I took a swig of my wine and tried to breathe my way out of my fury. Out of my feelings of being duped, yet again. What did it matter if she gushed over Hope’s videos and pictures if she still treated people like crap? There was enough ugliness in the world. I wouldn’t knowing
ly expose my daughter to Alicia’s poison.

  “This little dinner was a mistake.” I gathered my things, the sense of de ja vu not lost on me. If I was smart, I would have let her storm off earlier. “Next time you wonder why we don’t trust you with Hope, maybe you can think back to today and how horribly you treated that man...for no other reason than ‘because I can’.” I tucked my phone in my purse. “That’s who you are.”

  “And I suppose you’re St. Leila.” Alicia replied coolly. “Hosting benefits and having dinner with ex boyfriends is very saint-like.” She shrugged her silk clad shoulders. “I’m not judging. Jesus had dinner with whores.”

  I went rigid, but words managed to escape from my lips. “What-you-”

  “There’s not a single charitable event that takes place in this town that I don’t know about.” She flipped her platinum colored hair with a haughty chuckle. “And anything that has the Whitmore name attached to it goes to the top of the queue.”

  My eyes shot to my wine and I polished it off, fighting the memory of the dinner. Dashing Corbin’s face from my mind. “Then you know the evening was a success. And my ex, my dinner, and my life, is none of your business.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, dear. Despite Jacob’s histrionics, he will always be my son.” Her nostrils flared withe emotion. “You’re new to this whole ‘Mom thing’, so let me illuminate you. When you married my son and said ’til death do you part? You married me too. And Jacob may not want me to be an active part of his life, but I will be his mother until I draw my last breath.” Her voice turned dangerous. “And you will not make a fool out of him. Not for anyone, including some unwashed, rockstar hippie with 5K he saved up in his piggy bank.”

  My throat tightened. Anger, embarrassment and shame locked their tight fingers around my windpipe. “Corbin Wolfe is an ex. He’s my past. Jacob and Hope are my future.”

  Alicia slid back from the table. “For your sake, I certainly hope so.” She rose to her feet. “I don’t think we should continue this charade of a dinner, so I’ll excuse myself. Surely you can cover my glass of wine.”

  I had more to say, to let her know that whatever she thought she knew was wrong, but she got the last word.

  “And to think—I thought this would be a waste without Hope. I’m glad we had this talk, mother to mother.”

  Chapter Four

  “You two look like you’re headed to a funeral.”

  Simone and I exchanged looks. I knew that Rich O’Connor wasn’t refereeing our attire. I fit the bill, with my charcoal gray slacks and my high collar black blouse, but Simone was the opposite. She wore a sunflower colored shift dress, paired with a denim and onyx hued blazer. Rich had definitely given us a bucketful of lemons, and we were both trying to do our best to make some lemonade out of it.

  He wasn’t making it easy.

  He leaned forward in his seat, tapping on the driver’s chair. “What do you think, man? Don’t these broads look somber as fuck?”

  The driver twitched his eyes from the road to Rich’s face, then sat up taller and locked his attention on getting us to our destination so we could all be free of him. “I think they both look lovely.”

  “Thanks!” Simone chirped, leaning over to show me the Twitter feed. The whole world seemed as excited about this sit down as Rich was. Unfortunately, they were rooting against him.

  “So she does speak.” Rich had a whole row of the SUV to himself, but he still managed to encroach on our space. Still trying to get a rise out of Simone. “How many times do I have to apologize, Blondie?”

  I burned holes into his skull, but Rich’s gaze didn’t leave Simone. I wanted to go into Mom mode and tell him to turn around and keep his unnecessary comments and unwanted nicknames to himself, but Simone was giving him the best kind of medicine—ignoring his existence altogether. Rich either didn’t get the message, or he was determined to prove he was the most stubborn (and annoying) person in the car.

  “How many times do I have to apologize?”

  I couldn’t resist. “If you have to ask that question, you’re doing it wrong.”

  I hoped my comment would be enough to shut him down altogether, but it was wishful thinking. He tilted his head in my direction. Rich had a good ten years on me, but the mischief that sparkled in his eye reminded me of a five year old boy with his finger hovering millimeters away from his sister’s face. I’m not touching you!

  “I left my suit at home, but otherwise, what do you think?” He gestured at his face. Popped the collar of his midnight colored polo. He’d chopped off his signature locks and now, his mahogany strands were cropped and tailored to his angular face. It was a good look for him. A serious look. The problem was, when he opened his mouth, the whole thing went to hell.

  “The hair is a nice touch-”

  “Damn right it is,” he smirked, dropping his Ray Bans over his eyes. “How about you, sweetheart?” He was persistent, but Simone didn’t even look up from her phone. “Do you like my hair cut?”

  “We’re about five minutes from the coffee shop,” Simone answered, angled towards me like we were the only ones in the car. “They have the press cordoned off-”

  “Is she really ignoring me?” Rich feigned hurt.

  “Rich, the only person you need to worry about is Marissa St. Clair,” I sighed, grabbing my briefcase.

  “Who?”

  I glared at him.

  “I kid, I kid!” he assured me with a chuckle. “I guess apologizing to this chick wasn’t enough either. But I’ll do the song and dance if it’ll call off the hounds.”

  I didn’t even know where to begin with that statement. First, he clearly didn’t get that apologies aren’t something you begrudgingly give—and will probably be declined if you have the audacity to ask the recipient if they’re over it yet. And he didn’t say the ‘b’ word, or ‘feminazis’, but it didn’t take the skills of a Law and Order detective to figure out that he was still disrespecting women, and anyone else affected or insulted by his behavior. Which meant that despite our last encounter with a female calling him on his shit, where he managed to only make a couple of crude jokes and the host walked away deciding that he wasn’t a completely awful human being, all signs pointed to this being a colossal mistake.

  My phone buzzed and I frowned before I slowly toggled over to see the message. It was from Simone, who happened to be sitting beside me, but I understood why she didn’t say it aloud as soon as my eyes swept across the screen.

  Simone: We are headed to a funeral. This meeting is the swan song of Rich O’Connor’s career.

  MARISSA ST. CLAIR WAS not effing around.

  Whitmore and Creighton had done the legwork of reserving the entire cafe for their meeting, ensuring that the paparazzi didn’t hound anyone, though Rich made a point to stop and have his ego stroked.

  Marissa was waiting for us inside, seated at the table we staged in the center of the cafe, with a look on her face that almost made me cancel the whole thing. The fallout kept me from wrapping the event. Well, that...and there was a tiny part of me that knew that Rich wasn’t taking this seriously. After his last encounter with Marissa, the least he could do was sit in a chair and listen to something other than his admirers and whoever else was lying and telling him he was a standup guy.

  Rich was busy getting a drink (and flirting shamelessly with the bartender) and I wanted to touch base with Marissa before they went live. Simone was chatting with her, but from Marissa’s stony glare, it was a one-sided conversation. I strode in their direction, passing Simone as she whispered, “Good luck”.

  I pulled the sides of my mouth upward as far as they could go, holding out my hand. “Miss St. Clair? Thank you so much for coming out.”

  She looked at my hand, then slowly raised her eyes to my face. “There was no way I wasn’t showing up after I saw that video.”

  Yikes.

  I lowered my arm, holding tight to my smile. “Well, we appreciate you taking the time.”

&nbs
p; She cut her eyes in Rich’s direction, just as he unhelpfully let out a laugh. “Who is this ‘we’ you speak of? You, and the man who is allegedly so broken up about the verbal abuse and harassment he subjected me to? Clearly, the only thing he’s appreciating is the bartender over there.”

  I glanced over at him, trying to send a telepathic message that he was here to make amends, not get laid. Unfortunately, the message was not received. I turned back to Marissa, deciding that I was done trying to help Rich help himself. I pulled out a chair across from her. “Look, I know that you don’t want to be here-”

  “Are you kidding me?” She raised her glass. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be. Not only did he harass and insult me at my job, which turned me into a liability and now I’m unemployed, but he also had the audacity to call me out and force me to acknowledge him. Because it’s all about him, right?” She turned her glass into a laser pointer, gesturing around her. “This cafe is closed because of this ‘sit down’. People like me—waiters, waitresses, dishwashers, hosts—they aren’t making money right now because Whitmore and Creighton liked the optics and decided this cafe would make a good first stop on the Rich O’Connor Apology Tour.” She paused just long enough to take a breath. “And me? I was finally going back to just being Marissa. Because thanks to him, I’m the waitress who was called a frigid, vaginaless bitch in front of customers, my co-workers, and the whole damn planet since everyone started filming his tirade instead of calling him what he is: a pig. So, thank you, Mrs. Whitmore. I know you agreed to this so I could play my part. I’m the victim, right? I’ll get angry, cry a few tears, then he’ll deliver some PR approved bullshit. He’ll forget my name by the time he climbs back into one of those luxury cars you people ride around in.”