by Abby Angel
I’m all for sex, but love just isn’t my cup of tea.
“So, uhm,” the pilot starts, awkwardly unrolling the condom off his cock and pulling his pants up. “We are about to, uhm … start our descent into New York airspace.” Leaning forward, he taps a few more buttons and then glances around the dashboard, perhaps trying to check if he missed anything while he was distracted with me.
“Sure, I’ll go back to my seat,” I smile at him and, without a word more, turn on my heels and get out of the cockpit. The other pilot is standing by the door, and he throws me a furtive glance as he watches me walk down the aisle toward my seat. Yeah, he was listening in and, judging by the bulging shape in his pants, he was enjoying all of my moaning. Good for him.
Sinking down into my seat, I fasten my seatbelt and reach for the champagne in the side drawer. I pour myself a glass, and that’s when the pilot I was with gets out of the cockpit and makes his way toward me.
“Yeah?” I ask him, arching one eyebrow. God, I hope he isn’t going to ask me out.
“I just got word from the airport… There seems to be a lot of press in there waiting for you, Eliza—uhm, Ms. Seymour.”
Sigh. Of course, the hounds have caught the scent of blood and now they’re coming for me. Well, let them come.
“Thank you,” I thank the pilot, and then raise the glass to my lips and down the whole thing as he disappears back into the cockpit. A few minutes after and the plane starts cutting through the mantle of clouds, their whiteness blanketing us as we head down.
I gaze out of the window as the silhouette of New York City slowly rises in the distance, greeting me like an old friend, and I feel a pang of heartbreak inside of me. I tried to distance myself from a life I wasn’t sure I wanted, but now it’s time to face the music.
My name is Eliza Seymour, and I've come back to claim what’s mine.
Chapter Three
Good Day, USA
Melissa:
Welcome to Good Day USA, I’m your host this morning, Melissa Lee, and today I'm joined with Larissa Dubose.
Larissa:
Thanks Melissa. We have a great lineup for you today, but first there's breaking news from our Society Desk—guess who’s headed back home?
If you guessed America’s favorite poor little rich girl, Eliza Seymour, you’re correct, and very scarily informed. That’s because at the time of this taping, Eliza’s plane had just landed at JFK International Airport.
The heiress was greeted by press and paparazzi but refused to comment or answer any questions. Her spokesperson commented for reporters shortly after with a simple statement that read, “Eliza Seymour has returned to America after a long hiatus from her country of birth. She seeks to grow into the role envisioned for her by her mother and father and guide the family fortune into a sustainable endowment for future generations of the Seymour dynasty.”
Melissa:
So that’s a statement that in simple English I think means she’s coming back for her trust fund. Am I right, Larissa?
Larissa:
That’s what everyone I spoke to seems to think, Melissa. But I have a few spies in Eliza Seymour’s household and it seems as if Eliza isn’t just getting the money free and clear.
Melissa:
No? So there are restrictions?
Larissa (nodding):
It looks like it. Seems that when Daddy Seymour put the trust together to leave the majority of the Seymour estate to his daughter, he knew what kind of party girl his daughter was becoming. So he made sure to leave certain clauses in there that Eliza needed to have certain levels of investment performance and a minimum rate of return as well as hands on management of the money. If she fails to do any of these things, she could be challenged as custodian of the Seymour family fortune.
Melissa:
And I think we know there is one woman who would certainly challenge her.
Larissa:
Right. Wanda Seymour is the jilted stepmother. She married the elder Mr. Seymour late in life and claims that they had a connection based on love, but they were robbed by time. However, the late Mrs. Seymour and Eliza have never actually seen eye to eye.
Melissa:
But to be fair, I don’t think the rest of America has ever seen eye to eye with Eliza Seymour.
Larissa:
I don’t think so either. Remember this is a girl who famously told tabloids that she was feeling the recession that the country was going through five years ago because her yacht was smaller than she was used to.
Melissa:
I mean no one liked her. The rock band Dread Crystal came out with a song that they dedicated to her called ‘Poor Little Dumb Rich Girl’. Her leaving New York City was almost as much a sigh of relief for not just her, but the public as well.
Larissa:
Well, she’s back now. And she’s got $250 billion dollars riding on it. So we’ll see how that turns out.
Melissa:
We will indeed.
Ok folks. When we come back, we’re going to be talking to President Austin Bain, who just won the election and became the youngest ever President of the United States.
Stay tuned after these words from our sponsors.
Chapter Four
Carter
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blake, there’s nothing I can do. My shareholders have expressed their concerns and my hands are tied. I’m truly sorry.”
“Mr. Walker, you have to consider the fact that --”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, bowing his head. Cutting the conversation short, he snaps his heels together and turns around, briefcase tucked under his arm, and marches out of the conference room. Like automatons, his small army of lawyers and accountants get up, following his lead, and they all stroll outside of the room, leaving me by myself.
It’s only 11 am, and this is already the second client who has bailed on me. And that’s just today. These past two months have been some of the worst yet—I’ve already lost seven clients.
I drum my fingertips on top of the conference table and then, exhaling sharply, I reach for the small intercom sitting in front of me and press one of the buttons, the one connecting me to my secretary.
“Send in the next one,” I tell Cheryl with a sigh.
“Right away,” she replies quickly, and not half a minute after, another contingent of battle weary lawyers strolls inside the conference room. The head of that small army is Anderson Smith, a tech CEO who has made his fortune during the early 2000s. I’ve been managing his fortune ever since, but it seems like our partnership is about to come to an end.
“Anderson,” I greet him, calling him by his first name and shaking his hand.
“Carter,” he answers back, and his tone isn’t a cheery one. Not a good omen.
“You didn’t need to bring so many lawyers to tell me you want to pull your money out from my company, Anderson,” I sigh, diving straight into business. Why beat around the bush? It’ not like begging for him to stay will do any good; in fact, it’d make matters even worse.
“They insisted,” he replies as he takes his seat on the other side of the table, his lips curling into a pale smile. “I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to take any chances with my money, Carter.”
“You’re not taking chances with me. You know I’m the best. What happened—what is happening—is just a misstep.” I look him straight in the eyes, trying to look as if I’m telling the truth, but Anderson doesn’t look convinced. You know what’s frustrating about this whole thing? I really am telling him the truth of it. The thing is, investors are cynics; trust and confidence are alien concepts to them. Unless it comes in a spreadsheet, they don’t believe it.
“Let me be honest with you, Carter. I know that you’ve been losing clients these past two weeks. At this rate, your hedge fund will be at risk … and I’m sorry, but I just don’t want to take any chances. I’m too old for that now,” he says, and I can tell that he’s being as honest about it as he can. He’s pushing sixty now
, and he doesn’t want to take any chances. If I go down, he wants to have his money safely tucked somewhere else. And, hell, can I blame him for that? Still, he and all the other clients who've been deserting me aren’t seeing the full picture.
“I get it, I really do,” I start, placing my elbows on top of the table and looking down at him, trying to ignore the shark-eyed lawyers, all eyeballs trained on me now. “But just hang in there. I promise you, on my honor, if we hold our position you’re going to make more money than you expected. Illicit Entertainment is on the verge of a breakthrough, and we just need their first quarter sales to come about. Once that happens, we --”
“Yeah, Illicit Entertainment. About that … I’m not sure about investing in a porn company, Carter, I gotta be straight with you.”
Here we go again. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m dealing with investors or with the Prude Police. What’s wrong with a porn company, especially one like Illicit Entertainment? They pay their employees handsomely, treat everyone involved humanely, and are a terrific money-maker. And still, everyone is squeamish about investing in them.
“Illicit Entertainment is a sure bet, we have to --”
“I’m sorry, Carter. I really am. But I just want to lie down on a recliner by the beach and drink martinis. At my age I don’t want to be worrying about stocks and the market and what have you.” Slowly getting up to his feet, he walks all the way around the table to shake my hand once more. “I’m truly sorry, Carter. You’ve been a good friend to me, and I’m still honored to be able to call you my friend. But when it comes to business… I think it’s time we go our separate ways.”
“Don’t worry about that. Just enjoy your retirement,” I say with a smile, taking his hand in mine. With an acknowledging nod, he turns to leave and walks out of the conference room with a lighter step, all the lawyers trailing after him, as silent now as when they came in.
“Shit…” I mutter to myself, sinking back down into my chair as an oppressive silence settles into the conference room. With Anderson leaving, I think that the total my clients have pulled out amounts to 30% of the money I had just a few weeks back. And if I keep losing clients at this rate… If that keeps happening, soon enough I’ll have to start exiting positions, and that’s going to lead to more losses and then to more outflows…
This is a snowball from hell, there’s no other way to put it, and all of this because of a bad trade from two months ago. Somehow, the whole thing spiraled out of control; a few financial papers made a fuss about it and, the next thing I know, I'm losing clients. If there’s one thing you should know about investors, it's that they get spooked very easily.
Crap, I need at least $750 million to keep this boat afloat, and I have no idea where I’m going to find someone willing to sink that much money into me.
Rubbing my temples, I close my eyes for a moment, feeling a headache brewing at the base of my skull.
“Carter? You okay?” Cheryl’s voice cuts through the fog of my mind, and I open my eyes to look up at her. She’s standing by the doorway, red hair tied into a bun and horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She’s been with me right from the start and God bless her for that. I’d be lost without someone as efficient and understanding as she is. And no, don’t think that there’s something going on between the two of us. Even though she’s slightly younger than I am, and a hot woman who knows how to rock professional attire, we’ve never crossed that unspoken line. In a way, I see her as some kind of protective older sister. Which is kinda fitting, since I don’t have a family of my own. Sure, I have a bitchy ex-wife and a stepdaughter currently wasting her life away in Europe, but it’s not like I can call them my family.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I tell her, somehow managing to fake a smile as I sit up straight in my chair. “What’s up?”
“I think you should turn on the TV,” she says, narrowing her eyes. Without waiting for me to do a thing, she walks all the way to my side, snags the remote sitting by the side of the intercom, and points it at the flat screen mounted on one of the walls.
“Good Day USA?” I ask her, cocking one eyebrow as I see the familiar logo and presenter brightening up the TV screen. It isn’t like anything good comes from that TV show. Although they fashion themselves as real news, Good Day USA is just a tabloid show hiding under a professional skin.
“Good Day USA,” Cheryl confirms. “Just watch it,” she continues, casually waving her remote at the screen and turning up the volume.
“...back to Susan at JFK Airport, where Eliza Seymour has just landed and…” I stop listening at that, watching as the screen pans to a reporter standing in one of the JFK arrival areas. Behind her a bunch of reporters and cameramen crowd together, waiting for the woman I once called my daughter.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath. “Is she coming back to the States?”
“Seems like it,” Cheryl nods without taking her eyes off the screen. “Your daughter’s back. Her trust fund has just kicked in, and she came back to the states to sit down on the Seymour throne, it seems.”
Eliza Seymour, in charge of the whole Seymour fortune. Now that’s interesting.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Cheryl whispers, and I look up at her and smile.
“You bet I am,” I merely say, the contour of a plan taking shape in my mind.
Chapter Five
Derek
Columbus Circle is always a madhouse. It's in the middle of fucking Manhattan, so what else do you expect? People rushing toward retail and food—wives, daughters, children, old, young—it doesn't fucking matter. All walks of life converge here … and sometimes even the residential units of the Time Warner Building.
The residential units are where I'm headed—those two tall towers of steel and glass. I'm heading to the 72nd floor, to be exact.
Normally, I fucking love the city. Drop me into the center of it all any day. The energy. The hustle. It breathes life into my fucking veins … but today? I can hardly stomach being here.
Eliza's been in New York City for three days now, and every one of those days I've woken up in a cold sweat, wondering if this has all just been some terrible fucking dream.
I have a million fucking scenarios playing out in my head at any given moment.
And I have to keep asking, what have I gotten myself into?
I'm Derek fucking Stackford. Since when do I get told what to do?
Why does this bother me so fucking much?
But Wanda has me by the fucking balls … and she knows it.
I hear an airplane rumble overhead and I instinctively look up. Seeing this plane reminds me of what I'm about to do.
"Red Lion Aviation," Wanda had said, those three words tumbling out of her mouth like gravel. I remember watching her crimson lips part, hardly believing my fucking ears. I have to somehow convince Eliza to invest in this airline, "Or else," Wanda concluded. And I don't have to be a fucking genius to figure out what she meant by that.
It isn't an idle threat either. She could ruin me. My entire company is at stake.
I enter the building and walk toward the elevator. When the doors slide open, I step inside and begin rehearsing what I'm going to say. I've got 72 floors to come up with a plan, and the clock is ticking.
I straighten my tie and adjust my suit jacket. I run my fingers through my hair.
What can I possibly say to Eliza? The only thing that comes to mind is decidedly lame, like hi, remember me? You do? Great. Well, I'm here to get you to invest in a company you could give two fucks about.
Yeah, that's not going to work.
I watch as the numbers light up on the elevator wall… 7, 8, 9 … 15…
Fuck. Time is running out.
Wanda wants me to convince Eliza to invest in Red Lion Aviation, but she didn't say how. She conveniently left that part out. "That's all you have to do," she said, as if it's the easiest thing in the world to pull off. And she said it with such finality.
If I fuck this up, I c
ould lose my entire company.
There's a lot at stake here.
The thought of that makes my pulse leap. I can't let that happen; I won't.
"Just convince her," Wanda said. That word … 'convince' … hangs in my mind like something just out of my reach. So close, but so far.
The elevator continues to climb … 37, 38, 39 … 43 …
I can be persuasive.
I've convinced hundreds of clients to make investments that they would've never made on their own. I've swayed hundreds of women to fuck me by my smile alone.
So why does this task feel especially daunting?
Simple. Because it's fucking Eliza.
And by seeing her today, I'm ripping open my past.
Fuck, time doesn't wait for anyone … 59, 60, 61 … I rub my hand behind the nape of my neck, wiping off a thin line of sweat that's gathering there … 69, 70 …
Ding!
The doors slide open. It's the moment of truth.
I walk out of the elevator and down the long hallway toward Eliza's apartment.
Just smile, I tell myself. You're Derek fucking Stackford. You founded the billion-dollar International equities firm Stackford Capital. How hard can this be?
I approach her door and take a deep breath.
