Stepbrother Billionaire

by Colleen Masters

  I watch the news sink into Emerson’s mind. His outrage softens as he understands what I’ve sacrificed for him. And why losing my job now is such a huge deal.

  “Well. You can borrow my home, then,” he says, the hardness draining from his voice as he drapes an arm over my shoulder. “Everything’s going to be OK.”

  I let him guide me back through the Lower East Side. I feel shell-shocked, blindsided. Like every bit of context organizing my life has fallen away all at once. Or at least, every bit of context besides Emerson himself. For now, just having him by my side is enough. We can figure out the rest along the way.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After I’ve made sure that Riley isn’t going to be left out in the cold tonight, I settle in for a long, befuddled evening at Emerson’s place. The hours creep past as I try to process everything that’s happened, and what I’m supposed to do now. Emerson and I are both out of a job, I’m out of a home, and he’s bound for Europe at the end of the week. So much for that bright, shiny future I’d been so optimistic about.

  Emerson spends about an hour on the phone with Cooper and the other Bastian partners when we get back to his loft. They argue incessantly, trying to hammer out a truce. No one at that company wants to see Emerson leave, least of all Emerson. But with everything that went down between him and Cooper this afternoon, I don’t see what other choice there is.

  For my part, I spend the better part of the afternoon absentmindedly patting Roxie’s head and trying to work up the nerve to call my grandparents. Surely, they’re just bluffing. They don’t actually expect me to bend to their will and never see Emerson again.

  Or do they?

  “Well,” Emerson sighs, emerging from his bedroom having hung up on the hour long conference call. “They’ve backed off the whole firing-me front. Now it’s just a matter of whether or not I want to back off the I-quit front.”

  “So?” I ask, as he sits down beside me, “What do you think you’re going to do?”

  “For starters,” he says, brushing a lock of hair out of my face, “I’m going to open another bottle of wine. Helps me think.”

  He offers me his hand and pulls me off the couch, towing me back to the kitchen island.

  “Have you talked to your grandparents yet?” he asks me, selecting a bottle of Merlot to start with.

  “No,” I say faintly, burying my face in my hands. “I don’t know what the hell I’d even say to them.”

  “Say they’re a couple of assholes who should fuck right off,” Emerson shrugs, fetching a wine opener.

  “I don’t want them to fuck off,” I exclaim, “They’re my family, Emerson. Why can’t you understand that that’s important to me?”

  “Maybe because I know just how badly family can mess you up,” he replies, popping out the cork.

  “You think I don’t know that?” I ask.

  “If you do, you seem to have forgotten,” he remarks, taking two wine glasses down from the cupboard.

  “Maybe I’m just not ready to give up on my family so easily,” I say without thinking.

  Emerson pauses with his back to me, his shoulders going stiff. “What is that supposed to mean, Abby?” he asks, his voice deathly quiet.

  “Just that I’ve never been the type of person who cuts and runs on the people who care about her,” I say, wavering in my stance.

  “And I am?” he asks, irate as he turns to face me. “I was my mother’s nurse for years while my father was away. I’d probably still be taking care of her if she’d ever gotten well enough for outpatient treatment again.”

  “I know, Emerson,” I say, edging away from his rage. After the flare of anger I saw go through him at the office today, I don’t want to provoke him any further.

  “For fuck’s sake, I had to raise my mother, rather than have her raise me,” Emerson fumes, clutching the edge of the counter. His knuckles go white with the force of his grip.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice calm, “I know how much you sacrificed for your mom. But you know better than anyone how painful it is, having your family not be there for you. Cutting my grandparents out of my life should be easy, but it’s not for me.”

  “It’s not like they’re giving you much of a choice,” Emerson says.

  “I just have to figure out a way to get through to them,” I say shaking my head, “Without this job, I’m going to need a place to stay, at least for a little while.”

  “You have a place to stay,” Emerson replies quizzically, “Right here.”

  “I know you’re letting me stay here tonight,” I tell him, “But I mean long term, Emerson.”

  “Maybe I mean long term too, Abby,” he shoots back, his anger fading to determination.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask him, “You’re not even staying here long term. You’re going back to London at the end of the week.”

  “Only if I decide to keep my job at Bastian,” he says.

  I stare at him, jaw hanging out. “You’re not seriously considering quitting?” I ask, “That job is once-in-a-lifetime. Bastian is the best in the field. You can’t walk away from that.”

  “Sure I can,” he challenges me, stepping around the island toward me, “After the way Cooper disrespected us this morning? Why would I want to stay?”

  “No,” I say, “No, Emerson. You can’t leave that agency on my account.”

  “And why not?” he demands, placing his hands on my hips.

  “Because,” I splutter, staring up at him, “I can’t...That’s too much pressure! I can’t be responsible for you losing your job.”

  “I’m responsible for you losing yours,” he points out.

  “Yeah. But,” I stammer, resting my hands on his firm chest.

  “I was doing perfectly well before Bastian hired me,” Emerson says, “I can do perfectly well without them now.”

  “But what if you start resenting me? You know...for making you leave?” I ask, unable to meet his gaze.

  “That would never happen,” he says, turning my face toward his.

  “You don’t know that,” I insist.

  “Yes I do,” he says, his eyes flashing angrily. “I know myself, Abby. I know what I care about. And what I care about above all is you. I don’t want to work for any company that doesn’t value you as much as I do.”

  “Then what are we supposed to do, huh?” I ask, taking a step away from him.

  “Anything we want!” he exclaims, “I have enough money saved up from my first few app sales to last us two lifetimes!”

  “And I’m just supposed to be content, living off your money?” I ask archly, crossing my arms. “Remember how well that worked for my dad? And your mom?”

  “It’s not the same thing,” he says sternly.

  “I don’t see any difference,” I say, shaking my head. “My dad never had any pride in himself, because he just lived off his parents’ money his whole life. I was already headed down that road with my grandparents, but Bastian was finally going to get me on my own two feet. I need to find another job, another way to be independent, not another meal ticket.”

  “Is that what I’d be to you?” Emerson asks heatedly, “A meal ticket?”

  “Of course not!” I cry, “I love you, Emerson. I loved you when you were a penniless eighteen-year-old and I love you now!”

  “So what the fuck are we arguing about?” he shouts, slamming his fist down on the island. “It’s just money, Abby. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “No, it—”

  “It means nothing,” he insists, “You sharing my life, my resources, wouldn’t mean that you were bound to me, or that you owed me anything. It wouldn’t mean I had power over you, it would just mean...that you we here. With me. That we were in this together.”

  “Emerson, I don’t...” I whisper, trying to wrap my head around what he’s suggesting. “I don’t know how to think of money as anything but a bargaining chip. My family—”

  “Your f
amily is fucked up, pardon my saying,” he cuts me off. “Your grandparents use their money as a weapon. But me? I’d like to use mine as a gift. A way out, for both of us. Why won’t you let me do that for you? For us?”

  “I’m just...I’m sorry...” I say, trying to blink back the tears that have sprung to my eyes. “I just need to think.”

  “Fine,” Emerson says, his jaw set.

  He turns on his heel, storms across the loft, and grabs up a retractable leash from the side table. “I know I should just be some alpha man idiot and storm out into the wind or whatever the fuck, but Roxie needs a walk.”

  The Westie goes galloping over to Emerson when he whistles. Emerson attaches the leash to her collar and looks up at me. “I’ll give you some time to think everything over. Have some wine if you like. If you want to leave before I get back and find some other way...I won’t hold it against you. Just make up your mind, Abby. You know what I want.”

  Before I can say another word, he wrenches open the front door and disappears with Roxie on his heels. I fall back against the kitchen island, letting the baffled tears stream down my face. With shaking hands, I fish out a bottle of Cabernet from the stockpile. Pouring myself a very tall glass, I let my warring thoughts pour out through my mind as well.

  Emerson is willing to leave his job and share everything he has with me. I, on the other hand, have no choice but to abandon my job at Bastian, have no place to live, and hardly any money to my name. If he and I were to start a life together now, I’d be bringing nothing to the table. Shudderingly, I remember how I felt about Deb when she showed up on the scene. I thought she was desperate, and manipulative, and a helpless dependent. How would what Emerson is proposing make me any different from her?

  As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been living off the generosity of my family for my whole life so far. Sure, I worked hard to get into a good college and paid most of my tuition with scholarships, but I have privilege coming out the wazoo. And now, what—I’m just going to marry rich and have that be that? How am I supposed to live with myself if I go down that path? I have to earn my own way through life. It’s what I’ve always wanted.

  I take a huge gulp of wine and feel it go straight to my head via my empty stomach. Getting trashed is not the solution here, but I have no other brilliant ideas. I wish that I had someone to talk about all of this. Riley’s probably furious with me for getting us evicted, and it’s not like I’m going to call my grandparents up. It’s times like this when I most keenly feel the loss of my mother. I wish more than anything that she was here for me to talk to. She’d be able to help me through this mess. But of course, that’s just a dream. I’m all alone in this, as ever.

  “Well, Self,” I mutter, raising the wine glass to the empty apartment, “It’s just you and me again. Let’s figure out what we’re going to do.”

  I nearly lose my balance on the bar stool as a loud knocking rings out from the front entry way. That’s weird. Emerson just left five minutes ago, and besides, he has a key. We didn’t order any food, and there’s no way Riley’s swinging by to say hello after what I’ve done to her. So then who could possibly be knocking at this hour?

  Cradling my wine glass, I stand and cross to the front door. Probably it’s just Emerson’s dry cleaning, or something. Billionaires have things like dry cleaning delivery, right? I step into the entryway and unlock the front door, swinging it open with my free hand.

  There’s a man standing on Emerson’s front steps. He wears a dated but clean sport coat, a fair amount of stubble, and scuffed shoes that must once have been very expensive. His hands are clasped nervously in front of him, and his hunched shoulders give him a look of preemptive defeat. There are red splotches across his nose and cheeks, signature features of an alcoholic. The man is staring at shoes, and for a moment I can’t place him. But then, he lifts his face to me, and I feel the wind rush out of my lungs.

  “Dad?” I breathe, paralyzed in the doorway.

  “Hello Abigail,” he replies with heartbreaking formality. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. Well. I know it is, but...Can I come in?”

  “Oh. Of course,” I tell him, stepping aside to let him in.

  My dad shuffles past me into Emerson’s loft, looking as frail as I’ve ever seen him. I stare after him, utterly baffled by his sudden appearance here. I haven’t seen him since my masters program graduation ceremony, and even then he barely said hello before disappearing into thin air again. He’s not exactly an active presence in my life, so what the hell is he doing here, on one of the most intense nights of my life?

  “Dad,” I begin, watching as he stands awkwardly in the middle of Emerson’s loft, “Why are you here?”

  “Your grandparents. They told me what was going on,” he mutters, “I figured you might be in a tough spot, so I thought I’d come and try to...I don’t know. Help?”

  “But how did you even find this place?” I ask.

  “Your friend. Roommate. She mentioned you were with Emerson. This address wasn’t too hard to find,” he shrugs.

  I take a nervous sip of wine and immediately feel horrible for doing so as my dad shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t,” I murmur, setting down my wine glass.

  “No, it’s OK,” Dad assures me, “I’ve been sober for a solid six months.”

  I bite my lip. Six months is always about how long he lasts between relapses. I don’t want to set him off. What I do want is to understand what possessed my father to track me down tonight. We haven’t had a real conversation in years. Really, not since his falling out with Deb. His endless cycle of relapses and recoveries has broken him own. He looks feeble, now. Broken. I hate to see him like this.

  “So?” I prompt him, “Are you here to save me from the evil Emerson Sawyer? Are you going to tell me that Grandma and Grandpa are right, and that I should steer clear of him if I know what’s good for me?”

  “No,” my dad replies, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “No?” I reply, taken aback. “But—”

  “I’m not here to save you from Emerson,” my dad goes on, “I’m here to save you—try and save you—from yourself.”

  “You’re gonna have to drop a few more bread crumbs if you expect me to follow this,” I tell him, crossing my arms.

  “I know this is going to sound insane, coming from me,” my dad says, struggling with his heart-to-heart dynamic. “But when your grandpa told me what the situation was, it’s like I knew what you’d be thinking. You’d be thinking, ‘I should just give up on Emerson,’ and ‘It’s too hard,’ and ‘It’s not right to let someone help me, I need to go it alone’.”

  I stare at him across the room, flummoxed by how spot-on he is. My dad and I have never once understood each other. He’s never even made the attempt to understand my experiences. We don’t talk. We especially don’t listen. But here he is now, speaking to what I actually have been thinking and feeling. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

  “Dad...” I say slowly, “Are you telling me that I should stay with Emerson?”

  “I think I am,” he says, as if surprised by the conclusion.

  “But you hate Emerson,” I remind him, “You two nearly killed each other that day—”

  “Please,” Dad says, holding up his hands for me stop, “let’s not go there.”

  “Sorry,” I backtrack, “I’m just a little confused, here.”

  “I never knew how to do right by you, Abby,” my dad says quietly, lifting his eyes to mind, “but that’s not your fault. It’s on me. When you were growing up, I never gave your needs the same weight as mine. Never thought about how things would effect you. I was totally blindsided by how much Emerson came to mean to you back then. I didn’t even stop to consider how wonderful it was that you’d found someone you could talk to, share things with. God knows I wasn’t helping you on that front.”

  “Don’t say that,” I reply, a knot forming in my throat. “I’ve always loved you, Dad. You have to know t
hat.”

  “And I love you,” he says, crossing the room tentatively toward me. “I’ve just been pretty terrible at letting you know that.”

  With great care, Dad takes my hands in his. He looks at me intently, and for the first time in my life I feel like he’s actually seeing me.

  “Abby,” he says, “Do you love Emerson as much as you did when you were a kid?”

  “No,” I whisper hoarsely, “I love him so much more, now.”

  “Then don’t run away,” he says, squeezing my hands, “Stay and work through this with him. Don’t refuse him out of pride, or some idea of propriety. It’s OK to let people help you. Especially the people who love you more than anything.”

  “But what if something goes wrong?” I ask earnestly, “What if we start to resent each other, or feel tied down, or change our minds—”

  “Then at least you’ll know for sure where you stand,” my dad cuts me off. “I know you’ve been in pain since you and Emerson were forced apart. It was my fault that happened. Mine and Deb’s. But can you honestly tell me you haven’t spent the past decade wondering what would have happened between you and Emerson ‘if only’? I can’t let you spend the next ten years wondering. Hurting. I need you to hear me now, Abby.”

  “I hear you,” I tell him, and it’s true.

  “I know it’s scary, sweetheart,” Dad says, resting his hands on my shoulders, “But you’ve got to jump, now. It’s time.”

  “OK,” I whisper, “OK, Dad.”

  “OK, you’ll jump?” he presses.

  “I’ll jump,” I tell him, “But I may fall, you know.”

  “There’s always that chance,” he says sadly, “Trust me, I know. But you know what’ll happen if you don’t fall? You’ll fly.”

  He kisses my forehead and wraps his arms around me. I hug him back, ferociously. I think this might be the first honest moment we’ve ever shared together. And all I had to do was let my life get almost entirely derailed to bring it about.