Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  A nurse hovered nearby, adjusting the clear bag hanging above my mother’s head as she reaches a skeletal hand toward me, a cobweb of indigo blue veins inked beneath her skin. “Mommy can’t stay here anymore.”

  I looked at her in confusion. It’s been months since she left this room. “But . . . where will you go?”

  She mustered a wan smile. “Everywhere, sweetheart. Dancing in the clouds, swinging from rainbows, skipping from star to star. I’ll be watching over you from every sunrise and sunset. You won’t be able to see me, but I promise—I won’t miss a second of the beautiful life you’ll lead. Make me proud, my sweet boy.”

  Her eyes fluttered shut, and they never opened again.

  Pushing away my memories with a violent mental shove, I enter a few commands into my keyboard, make a show of rearranging the graphs and charts on my screens, wishing my emotions could be manipulated as efficiently.

  I often find myself wondering whether I’m succeeding at the last thing my mother ever asked of me. There’s no way to know for sure, and no matter how many clouds and rainbows I find in the sky, however many sunrises and sunsets I study, I’ve yet to see a single sign that she’s watching over me. That I’ve done a damn thing to make her proud.

  It’s another few beats before I manage to swallow the golf ball–sized lump in my throat and return my focus to Reina. “My mother is dead, and has been since I was five. Cancer.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Reina puts a hand to her throat, her features suffused with guilt for straying too far over the dividing line between interested and intimate.

  I wave away her apology and roll my shoulders in an effort to dislodge some of the tension that has settled at the base of my skull, leaching into my muscles. I doubt I will ever be at peace with my mother’s death. With all the scumbags on the face of the earth, why was she taken?

  “It was a long time ago.” I say now, eager to change the subject. “However, my stepmother would be quite pleased with your concern. I’m sure she’s planning another charity fundraiser at this very moment, thinking of all the different ways she can raise money for people she has no intention of ever meeting.”

  Reina’s eyes radiate empathy, and I can tell she is debating whether to ask me more. But to my relief, she accepts the detour. “You say that like you don’t agree with what she’s doing.”

  “I would have to care to disagree.”

  “Siblings?”

  “Identical twin sisters. Pia and Mia. They’re nineteen now, and sometimes I still can’t tell them apart.”

  Reina blanches. “Wow.”

  I grin. “Let’s just say I wasn’t unhappy to leave for boarding school.” She laughs and I decide it should be required listening, every day. As the sound fades, I stare at her open-mouthed smile. Again, that mouth. I can’t take my eyes off it. “So, is that enough of my history or will you be moving on to the medical portion of the interview? I’d be happy to call my internist and have him send over my chart to save you the trouble.”

  “No, I’ll let you keep your boarding school brat phase and cholesterol numbers to yourself.” There’s a teasing note to her reply. “Sorry, it’s a bad habit. I love learning other people’s secrets.”

  Reina

  Despite Tristan’s noble effort, I recognized the look on his face. I see it in the mirror every day. Heartache is a sharp knife, the blade all but hidden except to the most vigilant observer.

  So I understood when he walked to his desk and started jabbing at his keyboard. At first, I tried to pay attention to what he was doing, but as the minutes passed and it looked like he was just moving things around on his screens, I realized it was just a stalling tactic.

  Respecting Tristan’s need for privacy, I studied the small pattern in the weave of the carpet, scanned the headlines of the papers splayed across the table. Tried to quiet my racing thoughts while Tristan gathered his.

  But now it feels like the tables have turned. “Secrets,” Tristan echoes. “Interesting choice of word. Anyone looking for skeletons always has a few of their own. Your turn.”

  I’m caught off guard, and there’s nowhere for me to go.

  “I don’t have any secrets. I’m an open book.” I bite my lip, knowing I’ve spoken too fast. Overcompensating. A rookie mistake. I eye Tristan closely. Does he know I’m lying?

  Maybe I shouldn’t have asked to work with Polaris right away. Maybe keeping my distance would have been smarter.

  Too late.

  “Everyone has secrets,” he says.

  Stupidly, I reach for something, anything, to distract him from digging deeper. “Well, I do now. You.”

  The words escape before I consider their impact. I slap a hand over my mouth, instantly regretting them. “Shoot. That was wrong. That was really, really wrong. We need to forget what happened, and I shouldn’t have brought it up again.”

  Forgetting about our night together is like trying to ignore the sun in the sky. It’s right there, staring me in the face, so bright its existence is incontrovertible. Even now, I can still feel Tristan’s hands on my breasts, the way I trembled against his mouth, the sight of his exquisitely naked torso when he undressed in front of me.

  But Tristan has to believe I’ve already forgotten every single searing detail, otherwise he’ll change his mind about allowing me on his team. Maybe in his firm.

  Tristan walks back toward me with smooth, measured steps. “You know what they say about secrets.”

  “Two can keep them only if one is dead,” I offer, my tone flippant.

  His lips pinch into a frown. “That’s morbid. Do people really say that?”

  “Benjamin Franklin did.”

  “That man had a death wish. He flew a kite in a thunderstorm.”

  “He also helped draft the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.”

  Tristan shrugs. “Moving on. I was going to say— The only true secrets are the ones you keep from yourself.”

  “Honestly, I prefer mine. Because if I believe yours, then there are no secrets.”

  And that, I know, is impossible. I’m living proof.

  Tristan reclaims his seat, his knee brushing against my thigh and leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. We could probably power the building’s electrical grid with the sparks flying between us. “Either way, I don’t think I can forget about those hours we spent together, despite the inconvenient details that keep us from repeating it.”

  I swallow, feeling the blood drain from my head. “We have to try.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  Looking at his face, a part of me leaps with joy. He likes me. He really, really likes me. And then I return to earth with a thud. “I do,” I whisper.

  “Liar.”

  When my phone rings, I’m grateful for the distraction, even after I realize who it is. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Sweetie! How was your first day? Have you made any new friends yet?”

  I roll my eyes. My mother has stayed in touch through the years. I don’t always answer her calls though. There is a part of me that aches every time we speak. Since the day she walked out of my life, she’s never publicly acknowledged me as her daughter. She built a new life with Van Horne and his kids, and he remained adamant that they never find out about me. The few times I attempted to press her, there was always an excuse.

  Gerald is being vetted for the ambassadorship to Germany and a bad headline could derail his hopes. Or, Wendy is getting married, it isn’t a good time to rock the boat. Or, Do you really want a tabloid story to be the first thing that comes up when a potential employer Googles your name?

  So I stopped asking, not wanting to hear her reasons for keeping me in the shadows. I’m her dirty little secret. A scandal she’s determined to keep under wraps. It still hurts, but I’m used to it now.

  I sigh, setting aside the tension that is background noise between us. “It’s not exactly like the first day of school.”

  “Don’t be too sure. You know what
they say, you learn everything you need to know in kindergarten.”

  “If that’s true, I’ve spent a lot of time and money on a pointless education.”

  “Having the right contacts is priceless,” my mother trills. She always has a clichéd slogan at the ready, an armchair psychologist with a degree from Dr. Phil. “You know, I wasn’t sure you would be home yet. When you were at school, you always seemed to be in the library around this time.”

  I did spend an inordinate amount of time at the library, it was easier than trying to study in a tiny apartment with three other roommates. But it was also the easiest excuse to give when I didn’t feel up to one of her calls. It takes a lot of energy to make my life sound not just hectic but happy. She may have left me, but I’ll be damned if I let her think I’m not doing just fine on my own. Better than fine. I’m great.

  So I inhale a breath and exhale a full rundown on everything I can think of. Not just my day at Bettencourt, but the office itself and the other people in my training program and Megan and . . . “Oh, did I mention I’ll be working directly with one of the hedge funds teams right off the bat? I’ll have to rotate to other groups, too. But I’m starting off exactly where I want to be so . . .”

  I tell her about my new apartment, which she hasn’t seen, of course. And the bakery I found the other day when I wasn’t paying attention and missed my subway stop that has the best blueberry muffins ever. “I started talking to the woman behind the counter and it turns out she’s the owner, too. Well, co-owner. Her wife was in the kitchen. They met at culinary school and finally decided to open up their own place together. I told her in another week they’re going to have lines out the door . . .”

  I don’t tell her about my bills or the toothache I had the other day that led to an emergency root canal or the scratching I hear in the walls at night that I’m convinced is a family of mice just waiting to creep out the second I turn out the lights—which is why I’ve been sleeping with the lights on since I moved in.

  And I definitely don’t tell her about Tristan.

  Even though I can’t help wondering what she might say about him. Would she warn me against getting involved with a powerful man from an wealthy, respected family? Or would she encourage it? Hint that “Reina Bettencourt might make a welcome addition to the Van Horne family?”

  But her opinion—good, bad, or indifferent—is irrelevant. I didn’t get a job on Wall Street to land a man. I’m in it for the money, and the thrill of the work itself. I’m here precisely because I value my independence.

  We wouldn’t fight about it though. Not like I used to hear my roommates arguing with their mothers. There is no arguing with Gayle St. James, now Van Horne. The moment things become heated between us, like when she defends her husband, she inevitably finds some way to distract or appease. And if neither works, she simply leaves the room, or the house. Or my life.

  Which is why, now, I always leave first. “Well, that’s about it. I should probably go, get a full night’s sleep to be fresh for tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Of course, of course. Maybe when I get back, we—”

  “Where are you?” I ask, changing the subject. There is no we anymore. My mother made her choice and it wasn’t me.

  She takes the hint. “Oh, just away visiting friends.”

  My mother doesn’t have friends, at least not close girlfriends. She’s devoted her entire life to her husband. She socializes with his friends. Or at least, the wives of men in his circle. Which is how I know that visiting friends is code for accompanying Gerald to visit his friends. I wrinkle my nose. Even after all these years, the way she’s given up her own life to fit into his unnerves me.

  I quickly give her my new number, as I’ll be cancelling this line. Now that I have a phone from Bettencourt, one less bill to pay means more money funneled toward my school loans. Technically, it’s a work phone and not really meant for personal use, but the only person I ever talk to is my mother. For the few friends I stay in touch with from school, we use messaging apps or social media.

  And then I hang up, feeling like I always do after one of her calls. Deflated, like a sad balloon that can’t quite reach the ceiling anymore. I don’t know what hurts more—that she’s chosen Van Horne over me, or that she never quite severed the ties between us. Maybe if she left and never looked back, the scab would be gone by now. But with each call, each Sweetie! she picks at the wound just enough that it never heals.

  I get into bed, scrolling through Instagram to distract myself from the thought I didn’t let her finish. Maybe when I get back, we—

  We . . . what? It was probably something like, Maybe when I get back, we’ll check out that bakery. Gerald loves blueberry muffins, too. Or, Maybe when I get back, we’ll put our apartment on the market. Gerald’s been thinking about buying a brownstone.

  Because I’m sure she wasn’t about to say— Maybe when I get back, we should have have dinner. Maybe when I get back, we should go for a walk in the park together. Maybe when I get back, we should check out that new exhibit at the Met.

  Pictures of pretty food on bright white plates. Inspirational quotes. Ads for clothes. Books arranged on trays, on shelves, half-submerged in the sand beside a bottle of sunscreen. A classmate I barely remember showing off her engagement ring. A classmate I do remember, and never liked, announcing that her dog died. Ads for hair styling products. Someone adopted a puppy. A cat. A baby.

  So many posts, but distraction arrives as a tweet instead.

  Guess who scored the pick of the litter?

  Holy shit.

  Are they referring to me?

  Shit just got real. And suddenly, sticking to the shadows doesn’t seem like such a bad place to be.

  Chapter 6

  @BettencourtBets: IVy’s taking his show on the road—want to wager who made his cherry-picked team?

  Reina

  Bettencourt occupies five floors of a glossy skyscraper with views of the Statue of Liberty. The Polaris Fund team is on thirty-three. Not quite 7 a.m., it is already a hive of activity. My eyes are drawn to Tristan immediately, but he’s on the phone. Luckily, his assistant is on the lookout for my arrival. In the few minutes before Bettencourt’s daily firm-wide conference call, run jointly by the chief economist and a host of analysts, Stephanie shows me around. I quickly learn that the office Tristan brought me into yesterday is mostly for show. He prefers to keep his eyes on the action from a desk in the middle of the floor. His headset is on, computer screens flashing, and yet it’s obvious that he is fully aware of everything going on around him.

  Tristan offers a brief, impersonal wave as we pass his desk. My lingering nervousness is soon replaced by a rush of energy as I am introduced to everyone working on the Polaris Fund. There are more people than I expected in the group, which takes up nearly half the thirty-third floor. And to my surprise, I recognize one of them.

  “Professor Everett,” I exclaim. An adjunct professor at Columbia, his class was a highlight of my years there.

  “Reina!” He swivels in his seat, a broad smile spreading across his face. “I always knew you would wind up on Wall Street. Looks like you made it.” He turns to Tristan, now off the phone. “Before I came to Bettencourt, I decided I needed a break from running client money and got a gig teaching Investment Analysis. This girl right here was one of my favorite students.”

  “And you were, by far, my favorite professor.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” He grins, running a hand through his sandy brown hair before shoving it in his pocket. With his suit jacket slung over the back of his chair, and the cuffs of his white button-down shirt rolled up, he looks both younger and less intimidating than he did standing at the front of the classroom, quick to call on anyone whose attention may have drifted. “But just call me Kyle here, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  Movement at the large table in the center of the room catches my eye. Stephanie is using a triangular speakerphone to dial into the daily economic for
ecasting call. And while a few team members apparently prefer to stay at their own desks and listen via headset or earbuds, most grab a notebook and pen and sit at the table. I haven’t been given a workspace yet, so I follow Kyle and sit down beside him. “Do you work on the Polaris Fund?” I didn’t notice his name when I was doing my research this weekend, though I was more focused on the overall strategy than the management team. And I hadn’t expected to recognize anyone other than TJ— Tristan.

  “Yes. Tristan and I go way back, we were roommates in Cambridge actually. When he told me he was starting his own fund, I gave my notice at Columbia and decided to pitch in.”

  Moments later, the hair at the back of my neck rises as Tristan himself takes a seat on my other side, a monogrammed cufflink I recognize all too well winking at me from beneath the sleeve of his sleek gray suit.

  The call moves quickly. Though it isn’t easy to focus given Tristan’s proximity, I learn nearly as much in one hour as I did in four years of school. Tristan doesn’t take nearly as many notes as I do, but then again, neither does anyone else at the table. I am clearly the newbie.

  After the call ends, the team spends a few minutes going over any news relevant to their fund and batting around investment ideas. Polaris’s strategy is similar to the one I used to win the Bettencourt-sponsored investment contests at Columbia, but on a much larger scale. Tristan’s philosophy is research-driven and ideas can be pitched by anyone—researchers, traders, marketers. But unlike my theoretical investments, Polaris’s bets are real, the actual dollar amounts blowing my mind.

  Afterward, Tristan offers to show me around. “I give a much better tour than Stephanie,” he says, his voice light, but no less proud.

  I shadow him as he chats with everyone on his team, often asking about their families or their hobbies, and introducing me to anyone Stephanie missed. Tristan has a real connection with his employees and I can see they respect him both as a person and as a boss. IVy is no mere figurehead. “Before I show you where you’ll be sitting, I might as well take you to the supply room so you can get a few things. Pens, binders, Post-its, whatever.”