by Tara Leigh
“What’s your plan, Reina? Fuck your way into the Van Hornes? Or just get into their good graces by delivering Bettencourt on a silver platter?”
“Tristan, you can’t really think that I— I’m not a cheater. And I would never betray you by—”
“Betray?” The word is delivered in a searing snarl. “You give yourself too much credit, little thief. You were just a casual fuck. A convenient stress reliever. You want to screw your way up the ladder, have at it. But you’re fired. And we’re done.”
Chapter 19
@BettencourtBets: Who would you bet on- our IVy or the hockey-playing heir of Bull Capital?
Reina
I walk out of Bettencourt, my heart shredded and my pride shattered. Tristan didn’t let me finish explaining. He thinks he knows the truth, but he doesn’t.
Worst of all, even if he did, it wouldn’t make a difference.
You were just a casual fuck. A convenient stress reliever . . . We’re done.
I want to home and dissolve into a flood of tears. But not yet. There’s something I have to do first.
Bull Capital is headquartered just up the block. I breeze past the front desk in the lobby, cutting a confident smile at the two security guards stationed at the bank of elevators. Without an ID badge, I should check in at the front desk. I should have to prove that I belong.
But no one asks. And I don’t offer.
Because I do belong here. And this little family reunion is long overdue.
The executive offices of Bull Capital remind me of the Gilded Age mansions I once toured in Newport. Marble floors, oversized chinoiserie pottery, mahogany accents, somber paintings in elaborate gold frames. There is a receptionist desk, but no receptionist, so I walk through a set of thick Corinthian pillars unannounced.
Straight ahead, a coterie of gray-headed men in navy suits is contained within a glass-walled conference room. Van Horne sits at the end, only the slightest widening of his eyes hinting at his surprise. He rises smoothly to his feet, his mouth moving as he excuses himself.
Out of the corner of my eye I see someone, probably the receptionist who should have barred my entrance, rush over, her face ashen. Van Horne lifts a hand, forcing her to a screeching halt before she skulks away. She’ll probably be packing her personal effects into a cardboard box before I return to the lobby. I don’t feel bad. I don’t know her, but she deserves better.
Van Horne’s polished wingtips come within an inch of my toes, his face close enough that his stale breath abrades my cheek. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
“You didn’t get the memo?”
His lip curls. “What memo?”
“It’s take your daughter to work day, Dad.” As close as he is, I lean in closer. With my heels, we stand nearly eye-to-eye. “That’s what you’re after, isn’t it? None of your other kids want to work for you, so you’re trying to acquire Bettencourt.” I take a step back, gesturing with my arms. “So here I am.”
His eyes are so filled with fury they should be bleeding. Even I can’t face them any longer. So I do the only thing I can think of to piss him off more. I peer around him at the room full of men trying not to appear as if they’re watching our every move.
And then I wave.
Daddy Dearest nearly chokes on his own breath. His hand clamps down on my shoulder, fingertips burrowing through the lightweight knit fabric of my suit, and marches me into his office down the hall. No doubt I’ll have bruises tomorrow, but I wouldn’t drop my smile if he ripped my arm out of its socket.
Inside his office, Van Horne seeks refuge behind his enormous desk. I follow him, dropping my purse on top of his keyboard and sliding my ass onto the polished wood surface.
He inhales sharply as I cross my legs, practically shaking with indignation that I have the nerve to plant myself on his seat of power. “I wasn’t aware you had an appointment.”
“I wasn’t aware I needed one.”
Van Horne’s amber eyes glitter with fury at my threat and we study each other in silence. Father and daughter. Bitter rivals.
I can see myself in him. The arch of my brow. The purse of my lips. The golden tone of his eyes that coils through the green I inherited from my mother.
Van Horne is an attractive older man, the very definition of a “silver fox.” He has a few wrinkles, though not a single one of them could be called a laugh line. Maybe I’ve been lucky to have been kept at a distance.
He is scrutinizing me too, examining every inch of the daughter he rejected. I remain as still as the statue in the corner of the room, letting him look his fill. He speaks first. “Are you here to admit you’ve learned your lesson?”
It’s confirmation of what I figured out on my way here. Those pictures from last night weren’t a fluke. They’re part of his plan. My resolve strengthens. “Hedge Fund Harlot—I have to hand it to you, it’s a catchy line.”
“I would have preferred that Bryce wasn’t involved,” he says, unashamed. “But he’s no stranger to appearing in society gossip rags all on his own, so it seemed fitting. Consider it a warning. Stay away from my son, or I’ll do more than have a photographer on standby to document your every mistake.”
“You mean, my brother?”
“Is that what you want? You want to be a Van Horne?”
For a moment I simply stare at him. At this foolish, asinine man I’m related to by some cruel quirk of fate. And then I laugh. Not the forced, polite kind. But a genuine belly laugh that has me wiping at my eyes. “Wow. You are . . . extra.” But before he kicks me out of his office, I get a hold of myself. “I want you to tell your gang next door to tear up the offer they’re putting together for Bettencourt.”
His smug chuckle drags across my skin like a rough rake. “You have some nerve, thinking you can come in here and give me orders.”
I continue. “You’ll let it be known through several backchannels, including at least one financial journalist who works for The Wall Street Journal or Barron’s, that you’ve decided not to make a play for Bettencourt, although you’re impressed with Polaris Fund’s returns.”
He points a finger at me. “What’s next— a blank check?”
“I wouldn’t take a dime from you if I was living on the street,” I snap in response. “But I’m done hiding. Whether you like it or not, I have a mother. And a brother. And two sisters.”
There’s another demand bottled up in my throat. I take a breath as we glare at each other, then decide to unleash it. “And you’re going to tell them about me.”
“The hell I will!” he roars, the tips of his ears as pink as boiled lobsters.
“Oh, you will.” I look pointedly around at his ostentatious office, finally swinging off his desk and standing in front of it. “Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure everyone knows just how much of a family man you are. Rich, entitled assholes like you aren’t too popular these days. It won’t take much for cancel culture to come after you.”
“You wouldn’t dare embarrass your mother like that.”
I’m not entirely sure I would either, but he doesn’t need to know that. “You mean the woman who walked out of my life via Post-it?” My voice rises several octaves and I force myself to breathe from my belly. I plant my palms on the burled wood surface and lean forward. “The truth is, you have no idea what I’m capable of. And that scares the shit out of you.”
He meets my eyes, mutual fury warming the air between us. “Did Bettencourt send you in here to do his bidding?”
I shake my head, a wry smile twisting my lips. “I’m no one’s errand-girl.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
“Frankly, I really don’t care whether you do or not. But you’d better get a retraction before it comes out that Bryce is really my brother. That reporter you tipped off will look like a moron.” I tilt my head to the side, meeting his gaze head on. “Come to think of it, I’m sure he’d love to hear my side of the story. Writing an article about the richest Deadbeat
Dad in history would be quite a coup.”
Quickly, knowing I’ll only have this one chance, I yank out a few strands of hair from his head and shove them inside my bra. He roars his outrage, slapping his hand over the tiny bald spot I’ve inflicted and eyeing the neckline of my blouse. “Now, now. You can’t exactly go shoving your hand down my shirt, even if it’s to retrieve your own DNA.”
I’m almost to the door when Van Horne’s words slice through the skin protecting my spine, swiftly delivering their intended jolt. “When your mother told me she was pregnant, I gave her money and told her to take care of it. If I’d had my way, you would have wound up in a medical waste incinerator.”
I arrange my face into a mask of derision before turning, but inside I am a boiling vat filled to the brim with rage. “Then you should be used to disappointment by now. I’m here to stay. You impacted my life exactly once, and I’ll never give you that opportunity again. On the other hand, I can put the screws to you any time I damn well please.”
I turn the knob. “You have twenty-four hours to get the word out that your only interest in Bettencourt is because of the impressive returns Polaris had this year. I’ll give you a week to tell my brother and sisters about me. If you fail on either count, it’s off to the genetics lab I go.” I close the heavy door with a boom, my own personal mic drop.
But not before I catch a flicker of something on his face that shocks me. Respect.
In spite of everything, in spite of himself, even . . . Gerald Van Horne is proud of me for standing up for myself. For standing up to him.
Strength respects strength.
Tristan
My father appears at my desk for the second time in as many days. “Are the rumors true?”
“You’ll have to be more specific, there are a lot of those going around at the moment.” Noticing Bryce’s name flashing across my phone, I tap IGNORE and drop it on my desk. Again. Fuck him. “But if you mean our Twitter problem, yes. It’s handled.”
He makes a face like I’m being deliberately obtuse. “I don’t care about that.” There’s a steely flash as he glances at the now empty desk where Reina used to sit. “Did you end things with the girl?”
“She’s been terminated.”
“If I wanted her employment status, I’d call Human Resources. Did you end things with her.”
“There wasn’t much to end. We barely got started.”
He scoffs. “Bullshit. I’ve never seen you so wrapped up in someone before. She was good for you.”
“No, she wasn’t. She’s Van Horne’s step-daughter— Did you know that?”
Even through I don’t mention the image of her and Bryce that’s permanently seared into my retinas, my father shakes his head slowly, rubbing at his forehead like I’m giving him a migraine. “Come take a walk with me.”
The only bright spot in my day was finally clipping the wings of BettencourtBets for good. Other than that, today has been a shit show and I’m absolutely slammed.
I gesture at my computer screens, and the array of papers scattered across my desk. “I’m in the middle of something. I’ll come find you in a couple of hours.”
“Now.” He spins on his heel and walks away, leaving me to glare at him like a teenager who just had his car keys taken away. I can’t remember the last time my father ordered me around like that. And never at work.
But I want to know why more than I need to take a stand, so I follow him to the roof deck that only a few executives in the building have access too. We’re alone.
“You love her,” he says simply, looking out over New York Harbor, a deceptively bright blue sea encircling the lower tip of Manhattan. In reality, it’s a toxic moat polluted by the very city it was formed to protect.
My gut clenches. How can I love someone I obviously never knew? “It’s over. And it shouldn’t have started in the first place.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
“Dad, she—”
“Son, I realize that your generation thinks they know everything about everything. But I’ve been in your shoes. I was once young and in love, too. The girl made you happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.” He exhales a deep sigh, his voice thickening. “I know because I recognized it. You looked how I looked, every minute I spent with your mother. Cancer cut short our time together, even though she fought like hell to beat it. Are you really telling me you’re giving up on Reina because of a goddamn tweet?”
“She’s a liar, Dad. And there’s a damn good chance she’s not just Van Horne’s step-daughter. She’s probably a plant for him, too. The reason he’s coming after us.” I grind my molars. “I trusted her. She’s had complete access to all our trades, all our confidential client data, all—”
“Do you know where she went today, after she left here?”
“Of course not. I’m not having her followed.”
“Neither am I, but I can tell you that she went to Bull Capital. Straight to Van Horne’s office.”
I don’t bother asking how he knows. He always knows. “Well, there you go. Proof she’s working for him.”
“Do you really think so?” Before I can open my mouth to respond, he pokes a finger in the center of my ribcage. “In your gut, do you really think that? Because she looked at you like you hung the goddamn moon. And I swear, if she asked, I think you would have tried.”
I clear my throat. “No.”
“See?”
“No,” I yell. “I don’t see because I can’t trust myself. I’ve been wrong before. My judgment . . .” I squint at the Statue of Liberty in the distance, the torch raised in her right hand looking more like a middle finger salute than a beacon of light. “It’s off.”
His expression stills, then softens. “According to my contact, she gave the man a tongue lashing he hasn’t heard since his old man had breath in his lungs. The acquisition is dead in the water now. She killed it.”
“But . . .” If Reina was really working against me, if she was only with me to ingratiate herself with Van Horne—she wouldn’t have done that. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would she kill a deal she helped set up?”
“Exactly.”
“And why would Van Horne listen to her?”
“That, too,” he replies.
I sigh impatiently. “You know, if you have all the answers, feel free to share them. Anytime.”
“That girl’s got balls. Truth be told, she’s a lot like Van Horne.”
“You say that like you admire the man.”
“There’s nothing wrong with respecting you adversaries, son. Gerry and I go way back. So far, in fact, that I can tell you that Reina is not just his step-daughter. Though the bastard’s never admitted it publicly, she’s his flesh and blood.”
Gusts of wind pummel us from all sides, the roar of my pulse an ache beating inside my ears. Fuck me. “Is that a rumor, or a fact?”
“Call it an unverified fact.” My father gives a low chuckle. “I’ve known Gerry since before you were born. He’s always been a philandering louse, and I can remember when he was stepping out on his first wife. I’ve met Gayle plenty of times, and Reina is nearly her twin. But there’s something about her, maybe just the way she carries herself, that is one hundred percent Van Horne. Secrets that look like her don’t stay buried forever. Even so, I didn’t know for sure until I heard Gerry was gunning for us. Then I knew. It’s just the kind of move he’d make.”
“But . . . That’s crazy. I was just with Bryce, and he has no idea.” My head feels unwieldy atop my shoulders, bulging with everything I’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours—Bull Capital’s encroachment on Polaris, Van Horne’s first bite at Bettencourt, the Page Six headline . . . and now this. Bryce is Reina’s brother. Not her step-brother. Her brother. “Does Reina know?”
He nods. “I believe so.”
“She didn’t say anything.” My voice rises as anger mingles with confusion. “She was in my office just this morning and she didn’t say a goddamned thing.”
Guilt slaps at me as I replay our conversation from this morning.
“Are you insane? I didn’t have sex with Bryce.”
“Oh, really? Where were you last night?”
“I swear to you, Tristan. I wouldn’t do that, ever. Let me explain, please.”
“No,” I admit, the word like poison on my tongue. “I shut her down.”
After I accused her of sleeping with her brother.
I run a hand through my hair, digging my nails into my scalp. “I really fucked up.”
“It happens,” he says sagely.
“It shouldn’t. I should have known better.”
“True. But it will happen again. You’re human.”
“I don’t think Reina will let me off the hook quite so easily.”
He chuckles. “No, I don’t expect she will. Allow me a little fatherly advice?”
“Please.”
“Saying I’m sorry and I was wrong can go a long way. Showing up with a Birkin doesn’t hurt either.”
My hands tighten on the guardrail. “How many Birkins have you bought?”
His lips twist wryly. “More than I care to count.”
Chapter 20
@BettencourtBets: Now there’s a twist we didn’t see coming!
Reina
It’s ten miles from Bull Capital’s Wall Street office to my apartment on 110th Street. And I walk every single one of them.
(Well, after a pit stop at a Soho boutique to buy a pair of flats. Louboutins are not made for walking.)
Today has been one hell of a day. My route home took me right past Bettencourt. I didn’t notice Megan heading straight for me until I nearly mowed her down. Her eyes were glassy, her chin wrinkled and trembling from the effort of holding back tears. They slid down her reddened cheeks anyway, smearing wetly on her face with each unsuccessful attempt to wipe them away.
“Megan, what’s going on?” I asked.
