by Stasia Black
I bark out a laugh and look around. “What is this? You have the office bugged and you’re trying to get me on tape saying something incriminating? I told you bastards I had nothing to do with his company and no matter how deep you dig, you won’t find me anywhere in the records.”
I turn around and speak to the wall, carefully enunciating every word. “Daddy dearest didn’t think a girl was good enough to work at his precious investment brokerage firm. So guess what? I never stepped one foot on that property or touched a single file on any of his computers.”
“There’s no trap, Ms. Van Bauer,” Mr. Owens says calmly. “And there’s no need to raise your voice. I’m happy to prove my identity, though at this time I cannot reveal the name of the party I represent.”
I turn back around to him. And he really doesn’t look like he’s joking. In fact, this guy looks so stoic and serious, I’m not sure he’s ever laughed at a joke in his life.
“Here are my credentials.” He produces some papers from his inner jacket pocket and hands them to me. “Feel free to Google me, as they say.”
I check out the fancy, embossed watermarked papers. They bear both his name, Francis Roger Owens III, and the company name, Owens, Jenkins, and Rosenberg Trust.
I take his suggestion and pull out my phone to look him up. A few taps later and it becomes clear that Owens, Jenkins, and Rosenberg Trust is one of the top New York wealth management firms. When I search images, I see the man in front of me standing at the Met Gala with half of New York’s elite. There’s a picture of him with Mark Zuckerberg. And one with the actor from that famous zombie show.
I look up from the phone, my mouth going dry. “What exactly is it you’re proposing?” And why is such an obviously powerful man coming to the daughter of an infamous investment broker?
He smiles. It’s the smile of a man who knows he’s about to close a deal. Not kind or unkind, just the lift of both sides of his mouth and the glint in his eyes that say whatever deal he’s about to offer, I’m in no position to say no.
“It’s a small thing, really, when you compare it to saving the rest of your father’s life. He had you when he was so young. He’s only forty-nine years old. One hopes he has equally as many years left to live.” Mr. Owens leans forward. “You can make all those years a gift to him. He can live a life of luxury instead of enduring God knows what in a super-max prison facility.”
Oh shit. Why is he still pitching? It’s not good when someone sells and sells the pitch without talking costs.
“Bottom line,” I say, cutting him off when he looks like he’s going to keep spouting BS about what a wonderful life Dad’s going to magically have without paying any consequences for destroying the lives of all those people.
Mr. Owens smiles again. “All my client is asking for is what could be as little as a year of your life. A year of your life to give your father the rest of his.”
“Doing what?” I demand, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.
Mr. Owens drops the smile and pulls a contract out of his briefcase. He slides it across the desk to me. “My client needs an heir. You’ve been vetted as an acceptable candidate. You will stay at his residence and sleep with him until you come to be with child, then remain until you give birth. Then both you and your father are completely free of debt. In fact, you’ll be well compensated for your time. And the federal government will never be able to touch your father for the rest of his natural life.”
What the—
Sleep with?
Give birth?
He can’t be fucking serious.
He gives me that let’s-close-a-deal smile again, then pulls a pen out of his briefcase and holds it out across the table for me. “If you’ll just sign here and here,” he indicates two places on a long contract, “then we can get started.”
Chapter 2
I stand up as tall as my 5’6 frame will allow—well, 5’8 with my killer two-inch heels—and stare Mr. Owens down with every bit of haughty contempt bred into me by three generations of wealth and privilege. “Get the hell out of my office.”
“I’ll just leave this with you while you think it over. Here’s my number.” He produces a card, also from his inner coat pocket, and lays it on the contract. “But do call soon. My client is a man of…” he pauses as if looking for the perfect word, “peculiar habits. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
I scoff in outrage and sweep both the contract and card into the trash beside my desk. Because while there’s all that WASP breeding in my DNA, there’s also my mother’s Latina blood in me. “Well, you can tell your client to go stuff it because I’m not a prostitute or baby mama or whatever the hell you think—” I break off, shuddering at the thought of all of it. Having sex? With some disgusting stranger?
This is just fucking insane. How dare this man, however powerful he is, come in here and basically offer me a job as a prostitute? Dad being in the news so much has officially brought out all the crazies.
“Get out!” I shout.
Mr. Owens doesn’t seem fazed by how upset I am. He just steps back from the desk and taps his wristwatch. “Tick tock, Ms. Van Bauer. Only forty-five minutes before security will come and physically escort you from the building. Better get packing.”
With that, he turns and heads for the door. But not before tossing over his shoulder, “I look forward to your call.”
***
I walk in the door to my apartment at a little before two in the afternoon. I couldn’t find a box, so I had to stuff my large purse with all my belongings. It’s bulging so much I have to hold it in front of me like a papoose to keep everything in.
Like a baby.
I shudder even at the thought.
I hate babies. I mean, that sounds bad, but I never want to be a mother. Lord knows my own mom was a bad enough example to put me off the idea forever.
God, that guy propositioning me like that was the most insane thing I’ve ever experienced. And that’s saying something, considering I just learned two weeks ago that Dad tried to pull off the biggest Ponzi scheme since Madoff.
“Mel?” calls my dad’s voice in a panic. “Melanie, is that you?” Dad rounds the corner of my foyer and his face crumples in relief. “Thank God. Why haven’t you been answering your cell?” He’s wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt stained with last night’s spaghetti sauce. He looks like a shadow of his former self.
I stare at him confused. “My battery probably died. What’s going on, Dad?” I drop my purse with a loud thump.
He rushes forward and grabs me in a crushing hug. “I tried your office line too, and no one answered. You don’t know how worried I’ve been.”
He squeezes me even tighter. Okaaaaaaaay. Dad and I are close but we aren’t exactly the touchy-feely type. I can’t remember the last time he hugged me.
“I got fired.” No point in beating around the bush. Unlike him, I can’t keep up a perfect sheen that everything’s a-okay when in reality it’s going down the shitter.
He takes a step back. “What? Why? You’re the best damn ad account manager they’ve seen in years.”
I just stare at him. I’ve never heard such high praise from him.
Then I heave out a sigh. “Daddy, I—” How do I tell the father I’ve always tried so hard to impress that I got fired from my dream job because of him? Because of the Van Bauer name?
He waves a hand but then the same hand is quickly raking through his hair. “None of that matters right now. We’ve got bigger problems. Everything’s just—”
He’s scaring me. All of this came as an insane shock when it blew up two weeks ago—my dad, the man I’d looked up to forever, defrauding all those people, lying to me, to everyone, for years.
He starts pacing back and forth in the entryway and finally heads into the living room. I follow him. All the blinds are drawn and the TV is muted, flashing some cable news show. Used plates and junk food packages litter the coffee table.
Seeing the mess only hei
ghtens the anxiety churning in my stomach. None of this is like my dad. Usually he’s all about organization and he’s a fitness nut. He works out more than me and he’s forty-nine.
“Baby,” he starts again, “the DA wants me to make a deal. You see, I got into business with some very bad men and—” He bites his lip and presses a hand to his temple like he can’t bear to tell me the rest.
Okay, this is beyond scaring me. I’ve never seen him like this. He is freaking me out. I go over to him and grab his forearms to stop his pacing. “Dad. What men? What the hell is going on?”
It’s then that I see just how bloodshot his eyes are. His breath doesn’t smell like alcohol, but it’s like he hasn’t slept in days. I’ve heard him up at night but I’ve just tried not to think about it. My unspoken mantra has been: go to work and avoid, avoid, avoid.
The government seized all his assets, including the Upper East Side apartment where he lived. He’s been staying with me ever since he got out on bail last weekend. And he’s been… different. Not the confident man I grew up with.
But I’ve never seen him look so freaked out. So abjectly… terrified.
“We have to get whatever money’s left together.” His eyes shift back and forth wildly. “I have to get out of the country. I’ll make a run for Mexico. Maybe find someone who can get me to South America.”
“Dad, stop it.” What the hell is he talking about? “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?” Growing up he and I were close. After Mom left us when I was a kid, I used to spend every afternoon after school in his office, coloring or doing homework in the corner and listening to him wheel and deal over the phone. I told myself that when I was older, I’d be just like him.
But then one day it all stopped. He said it wasn’t professional to have his daughter at work like that even though he’d never had a problem with it before. He used to show me off to all his coworkers and brag about my good grades to anyone who would listen. But then a nanny started picking me up from school and taking me home to our huge and incredibly empty Manhattan apartment.
Most days Dad tried to get home in time for dinner and to help me with my homework afterwards if I needed it. We always still did the Sunday crossword together… but it was never quite the same. And then cue the pitched battles when I was looking at colleges and started talking about working at the family company. Which was when he dropped the big ‘ole bomb that Van Bauer & Sons meant exactly that… sons. No girls allowed.
“Honey,” he finally looks at me and devastation is clearly written all over his face—dropped brows, dark circles under his eyes, “you don’t know how hard I’ve worked to keep this from ever touching you.” He sinks down onto the couch behind him and clutches his head in his hands. “But no matter how hard I worked to keep it all afloat, I just kept getting in deeper and deeper.”
Is he talking about the Ponzi scheme? I’ve asked him, of course I’ve asked him why he did it. How he could have been so stupid… well, I didn’t word it like that, exactly, but still.
“Why, Daddy? What happened?” I sit down on the couch beside him and take his hand. It’s a reversal of when we were little, of when I’d be afraid and he’d take my hand and all the monsters and scary things in the dark would disappear. That was his power back then. He was my hero. He could do anything.
He stares at the ground and for several long moments, I think he’s still not going to tell me. I sigh and go to pull my hand back but he clutches it even tighter.
“After your mom left, I went through a bad patch. I started gambling. I almost lost everything.” He squeezes his eyes shut and I can see how much it pains him to admit the weakness.
I swallow hard to keep back my shock.
“I pulled my head out of my ass eventually, but not in time. I borrowed money from some bad men to pay back my debts.” He finally looks over at me, his eyes watery and red. “And then I had to borrow from my legitimate clients to pay them back. And it kept snowballing from there. I thought if the company just made enough money, if I could just float it for a little while longer, I could pay everyone back.” He starts shaking his head. “But it got out of control.”
His mouth tightens into a hard line and he squeezes my hand again. “But I swore none of it would ever touch you. You’d never be part of the business. You’d never be tainted by my mess.”
A cry I can’t keep back erupts from my throat. “So it was never because… because I wasn’t—” I can barely get it out but it has to be asked, “a son?”
His forehead creases in a pained look and he shakes his head. “I hated that I had to make you believe that, but all that mattered was keeping you safe.”
He pulls me into his arms again and I collapse against his chest.
Dad. Oh God. How could he?
“Why didn’t you just tell me? Maybe I was too young to understand at first, but I’m a grown woman now. You could have confided in me.”
He holds me to him while tears leak out of my eyes. His heart is thumping strong underneath my ear.
“I couldn’t.” I can hear how thick his throat is as he says it. “I was so ashamed. I’m a foolish old man.”
I scoff as I pull back from him, swiping at my eyes. “You’re only forty-nine, Dad. Hardly old.”
He just shakes his head. “I’ve got to get out of the country, honey. The men I was talking about are dangerous—even after I paid them back…” His gaze moves toward the window like he can’t bear to look at me while he talks about this. “I was never able to untangle the business from them. They’re powerful men.” He moves his palms down his pajama pants. “They wanted money… favors… The DA suspects their involvement and he’s offered me a deal if I flip on them. I’m not stupid enough to take it.” A haunted look comes into his eyes. “But it’s obvious I’m a loose end they want tied up.”
Tied up… does he mean, like—
“While I’m holed up in the apartment they can’t get to me.” His face crumples again. “But baby, now they’re threatening you.”
He walks to the attached dining room and comes back with a large envelope with several black and white photographs. All of me. All with a big red X marked over my face.
“I don’t care if I die,” my father whispers. “But I can’t bear to let anything happen to you.”
My gaze freezes on the pictures. Me in my workout gear—it could have been yesterday or any of the other Mondays, Wednesdays, or Sundays I go to my gym. But the second picture, I’m wearing a necklace that I rarely put on. I wore it yesterday in a sad attempt to jazz up my day and feel more feminine and pretty in my usual pantsuit and power blazer.
A cold shiver works its way down my spine. Someone was watching me? And taking creepy pictures?
Someone who wants my dad… dead?
“Who’s doing this?” I whisper.
Dad shakes his head. “These men want me dead because of what I know. I’m not telling you or anyone else.”
“What about protective custody if you did testify? Can’t the police—?”
But Dad’s already shaking his head. “You don’t understand the power these men wield.” He swallows. “My only chance is to disappear. Get south of the border and keep running.” His gaze goes distant. “You should be safe as long as I’m gone.”
I tug away from him and run my hands through my short hair. Holy crap. This is all real. My dad, he— I swallow hard against the tears.
And this whole time, he was protecting me, not shunning me from the business because I was a girl.
“Do you know someone who can help you? To disappear?” God, from all he’s said and the pictures, they’re probably watching the house right now. I look to the windows that he’s shuttered. He must have had the same thought.
He reaches a shaking hand up to rub his chin. “That’s why we need to get together whatever money we have. I’m sure we can find someone. For the right price—”
So that’s a no about him knowing anyone who could help. Not surprising since he burn
ed all his bridges by defrauding almost everyone he was in business with.
I look up at him, suddenly knowing what I have to do.
I walk over to him and squeeze his trembling hand. Then I head back into the foyer and lean over to grab my purse. I dig through all the crap I shoved in it and pull out the crumpled contract at the bottom. Then I fish around for the card.
Yes, I kept them.
Desperate times and all that—though, God, I didn’t even know the half of it. My mouth goes dry as I withdraw my phone from the front pocket of my purse.
Now my hands are the ones shaking.
I look down at the card, thinking of how confident Mr. Owens would be that I’d call. Like there was no question that I’d be forced into this position.
Am I really willing to… sleep with him until you come to be with child… Mr. Owens words come back in perfect clarity and a shudder goes through my body.
I almost drop the phone back into my purse but then my eyes catch on the photos of me Dad’s still clutching in his hands. If what Dad’s saying is true, this is life or death.
I dial the number.
Mr. Owens picks up on the first ring. “Ms. Van Bauer. How delightful to speak to you again so soon.”
Chapter 3
“No! Stop, wait! You didn’t let me say goodbye!” I scream, fighting the grip of two men who drag me up the front stairs of a huge resort-type building in the middle of nowhere.
I look over my shoulder frantically at the small plane idling in a distant field and shout, “Dad!” even though I know it’s useless and he can’t hear me.
What the fuck have I gotten us into?
None of this is what I envisioned when the well-dressed Mr. Owens came over a half an hour after I got off the phone with him.
God, was that really only earlier today? As soon as I signed on the dotted line, Mr. Owens told us we had to leave immediately. That we couldn’t bring even a single belonging with us.
