The Stranger, page 17
Although he’s not a man I’ve ever looked up to, learning the cold hard truth about the person who shares half of your DNA was a hard pill to swallow. It forced me to take a long look at myself, and I’ve strived every day since to be nothing like him.
Once the working day ended, I had security escort Delilah to the limousine, where Damien was waiting to take her home. Unfortunately, I could not join her, because I had a more pressing engagement—a meeting with Logan, my lawyer. I needed to make sure all my ducks were in a row. My father would not take this lying down, but I was determined to see him gone.
I have an ace up my sleeve. Files that I was unaware existed until I took over.
Christine, my current HR Manager, was the receptionist for that department during my father’s reign. A slimeball by the name of Gary Hanson was running the show back then and colluding with my father to get rid of or pay out any employees that were wronged. Hush money. If all else failed, he’d simply destroy evidence and help bury the scandal.
What they both failed to realise was Christine was keeping records and receipts of all the corrupt behaviour that had been going on. When she handed me the files, I immediately let that weasel go and replaced him with her. She was the type of exemplary employee I needed heading my Human Resources department, considering their primary role was to secure a productive and positive work environment.
It is after eight by the time I finally arrive home, and my head is pounding. I called my mother earlier to give her a heads-up. It’s not unlike my father to reach out to her when things don’t go his way. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d warned her to put a leash on her son.
I also asked her to check in on Delilah, but I was not expecting to find her sitting at my kitchen island drinking a glass of wine when I entered the apartment.
I meant a phone call or message. Not a visit.
Unlike the ill feelings I have towards my father, I adore my mother, but I’m tired, irritable, and not in the mood for company.
“Darling,” she says the moment I enter.
“Mother,” I reply. My eyes flicker over to Delilah, who’s standing by the kitchen sink washing dishes.
“We cooked for you.” I arch an eyebrow. “Well, Delilah cooked … I supervised.”
“Supervised?” My mother couldn’t cook to save her life.
She lifts one shoulder. “Technically, I just poured the wine.”
“Right,” I say, chuckling. That sounds more like it.
Rising from the barstool, she crosses the room to greet me, taking my briefcase out of my hand and kissing my cheek. “She knows her way around the kitchen,” she whispers. “I’m impressed. That one is a keeper.”
“Mother,” I growl. I’m in no mood for her matchmaking tonight.
“You look stressed, darling … come sit. Let me make you a bourbon on the rocks.”
“I won’t say no to that.”
My mother makes her way towards the bar, and I head into the kitchen to check on Delilah. “Are you okay?” I ask when I reach her. She turns to face me and something squeezes in my chest.
Unconsciously, I reach out, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. It’s an intimate move, one that I have no business doing, but this damn pull I feel towards her when she’s close is something I need to deal with. It’s going to be my undoing if I don’t.
“I’m fine. How are you? How’s your hand?”
I clench my fist a few times before answering, “A little tender, but I’m okay.”
Delilah reaches for my hand to closely inspect my knuckles. When the pad of her thumb innocently brushes over the area, my cock twitches behind the zipper of my trousers.
That’s seriously fucked up.
Get a hold of yourself, Prescott.
“Do you want me to put some ice on it?” she asks.
That offer brings a smile to my face. I love that she wants to take care of me.
“All good, sweetheart,” I say, leaning in to place a chaste kiss on top of her head. “But thank you.”
I see a slight blush form on her cheeks as she drops my hand and moves towards the oven. “Are you hungry? I kept your dinner warm. Your mother and I ate earlier since we weren’t sure what time you’d be home.”
“I’m starved,” I tell her. With everything that happened today, I ended up skipping lunch.
“Go sit. I’ll bring it out to you.”
It’s funny, on the drive here all I wanted was a few stiff drinks, a hot shower, and some alone time to decompress, but now that I’m home and being fussed over by the two women who matter to me most, this is exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
When I turn to exit the kitchen, I find my mother standing at the threshold with my bourbon in hand, smirking like a damn Cheshire cat. I take my drink from her hand and lean in to mumble, “You’re seeing things that aren’t there, Mother.”
She lets out a small laugh as she reaches up to lightly tap my cheek with her open palm. “Oh, Son,” she coos, “I look forward to the day the truth smacks you right in that handsome face of yours.”
I’m taking back everything I just thought. If my mother continues to look at me with those damn cartoon eyes of hers, I’m going to end up with indigestion.
The following day, as anticipated, I found myself in a meeting going head-to-head with my father and his incompetent lawyer.
Thankfully, my legal representation is one of the best in the business. Logan dealt with these two clowns during the takeover, and despite them trying to screw us over at every turn, he ended up wiping the floor with them. I’m expecting today’s outcome to be no different.
We laid our initial offer on the table, which was almost equal to half of what the company was worth, despite him only owning thirty-seven-point-five percent, which is way more than he deserved, but he remained steadfast. That’s when the ace up my sleeve—AKA the secret files—came into play. He had his chance to do the right thing … the honourable thing, but now it was time to play hardball.
When I took over the company, it was only worth one hundred and fifty million dollars. Under my reign, it’s now worth more than double that. My father has been raking in huge profits for the past few years, as well as continuing to take a salary, for zero input or hours worked—if you discount the monthly meetings he attends—the greedy bastard. He merely makes an appearance, listens, then leaves.
I’m done being Mr Nice Guy.
“My client had a feeling you wouldn’t agree to the first offer, so let’s take that one off the table, shall we?” Logan instructs. He reaches down into his suitcase to retrieve our secret weapon. “Our second offer—”
My father’s rude counsel cuts Logan off. “It better be more than the last one, or the deal is off and we walk.”
I glare at him from across the table with a bemused smirk. This is going to be fun.
“Monetary-wise, the offer is considerably less,” Logan counters.
“Less?” my father barks.
His lawyer stands and buttons his coat. “Okay. I think we’re done here.”
“We are just getting started. Now, sit the fuck down,” I growl.
“We have the upper hand,” he retorts. “I don’t think you are in any position to bark out orders.”
“Actually,” Logan chimes in, “you might want to take a look at this.”
“What is it?” my father asks, sitting forward in his seat.
Logan pushes the folder across the table, and his lawyer opens it first. He scans over the top two sheets of paper before his face pales.
My father snatches it from him and starts flicking through the stack of incriminating evidence. “Where did you get this,” he bellows.
“As you can see, you are royally fucked, old man. We have countless receipts for all the sexual advances you made towards women in this company, including your illegal activities and the underhanded deals you’ve done regarding the above over the years. We have multiple affidavits from a large majority of your victims, as well as bank statements to corroborate all the bribes and hush money paid … the paper trail is quite extensive.”
It took me many months to gather all the intel to back up Christine’s original files, but it was worth it just to see the stricken looks on both of their faces. His lawyer is in this just as deep as he is.
“So,” Logan says, after giving them both a moment to let it all sink in. “This is our last offer. Fifty million dollars and a get-out-of-jail-free card. If you don’t accept, we’ll be handing these files over to the authorities.”
My father’s lawyer visibly swallows, and I don’t bother trying to hide my smile. “I think you’ll find my client will be accepting the deal.”
“Hold on a minute,” my father yells. “Fifty million is a third of what was originally offered … and less than half of what my shares in this company are worth. I have a new baby on the way—”
“Your wife is pregnant?” I ask, cutting him off. That news is like a sucker punch to my gut.
“Yes,” my father answers. “This child is going to be your half-sibling, Son. Whatever you do to me now, is going to affect him or her going forward.”
“With firsthand knowledge of the type of father you are, I’m more worried about the damage you’ll cause this child.”
“You’re a disgrace,” he growls. “I’m ashamed to call you my son. I have a good mind to disinherit you.”
“Pot, kettle, old man, and please do. I want nothing from you.”
He bangs his fist down on the table. “Because you already stole it all.”
I don’t know the minor details of my parents’ property settlement, but I know my father is far from poor. “I stole nothing. You gave me twenty-five percent of this company as a bribe to have me come work here.”
“And what a fool I was,” he seethes.
“The other thirty-seven-point-five percent I brought from my mother.”
“For a fucking dollar,” he roars. Despite the fury that’s running through me, I look over at him and grin. He and his dick of a lawyer tried every trick in the book to squash that sale, but in the end, they lost. “I bet you that bitch put you up to this.”
His crude words about the woman who gave me life have me hitting boiling point. I leap to my feet, ready to launch myself across the table at this piece of shit, but Logan quickly stands and places his hand on my shoulder. “He’s not worth it,” he mumbles under his breath.
And he’s right; he’s not.
My mother doesn’t know about this meeting or the secret files, and if I have a say in it, she never will. This man has hurt her enough. There is no point in rubbing salt into that wound. As it is, I’m going to have to break the baby news to her before the tabloids get wind of it. I’d rather she hear it from me.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I say as my gaze moves from my father to Logan. “I’m prepared to offer twenty-five million, and not a penny more.”
“You can’t do that,” my father yells.
“I’m afraid I can, and I just did. So, unless you want to see yourself behind bars, I’d be signing those papers expeditiously. You have forty-eight hours.” I button up my suit jacket before leaning across the table to collect the file. “If we don’t hear from you by then, I’ll hand these over to the authorities.” With that, I turn my attention back to Logan. “Can you handle this from here?”
“Yes, of course.”
I extend my hand to him. “Thank you for everything.”
A smirk plays on his lips as he wraps his fingers around mine. “Anytime.” I get the impression he enjoyed this as much as I did.
I glance over at my father as I stalk towards the exit. “C U Next Tuesday.”
“What’s next Tuesday?” his lawyer asks him confused.
Logan briefly chuckles before clearing his throat and saying, “I think my client just called your client a cunt.”
Damn right I did.
Delilah would be proud.
Despite the clusterfuck I just had to sit through, I grin all the way to the elevator.
Chapter 25
Delilah
Thursday morning, I woke to a text from my mother. I wasn’t expecting to hear from her today considering how strained things are between me and my family right now, but deep down, I was hoping to.
Mum: Good morning, Delilah. Wishing you the happiest birthday, sweet daughter. I hope your day is as special as you are. I have a present waiting for you at home. Hopefully, I’ll get to see you soon so I can give it to you. Love Mum xxx
Her message has my day starting with a pep in my step. That pep only gets peppier when I enter the kitchen to retrieve my packed lunch—last night’s leftovers—from the fridge. Because sitting on the island is a propped-up envelope that has my name scrawled across the front.
I open it and find a birthday card inside. How did he know it was my birthday today?
Although what’s written inside is generic at best, I still find a lump rising to my throat as I read it.
To Delilah,
Happy Birthday.
From Spencer.
I’m touched that he not only took the time but thought enough of me to do this. Inside is a thousand-dollar gift certificate for a day spa. It is way too much, but given the pampered lifestyle he is used to, in his eyes maybe it isn’t.
Me: Thank you for my card and the gift certificate. It was very thoughtful of you. Can I ask how you knew it was my birthday though?
Spencer: You’re welcome. I wasn’t sure what to get you. Obviously, flowers were out of the question! My first thoughts were a pair of roller skates, a hula-hoop, a Barbie doll, or maybe a skipping rope, given your youth. But then I realised in ten short years you’ll be over the hill like me, so I ended up going for a more grown-up gift.
Spencer: And I knew it was your birthday because you work for me remember?
He’s typically a serious person and laser focused on his company, so I cherish the moments when he lets his guard down and allows his playful side to shine through.
Me: Hah. Very funny! But I do appreciate the more grown-up gift. You should consider getting a massage sometime; you’ll probably find it will do your weary old bones the world of good. And does your company have some kind of employee birthday database?
Spencer: My bones are neither old nor weary. And no to the database. I remember you telling me the first night we met that your birthday was approaching, so I made a note of the date when you filled in your employee details.
I hug my phone to my chest when I read his reply because his response means everything to me. Things may still be a little weird between us, but his thoughtful gesture means so much.
My day only continues to improve from there:
10 am – a dozen beautifully decorated cupcakes appear on my desk.
11:30 am – a colossal bunch of colourful helium balloons comes next, with the number twenty-two staked in the centre.
1 pm – a box of custom cookies is delivered.
3:15 pm – a tray of assorted handmade chocolates arrives.
I went from fearing my birthday would pass without any acknowledgment to being totally overwhelmed. I’ve never felt so special.
I can only surmise who is sending me these things because no card accompanies the deliveries. Another glaringly obvious clue is the lack of flowers, which would usually be the most common thing you would send a woman on her birthday.
Me: Thank you for making my day so special.
Spencer: You are welcome, sweetheart!
“Are you still coming out for drinks with us tonight, Delilah?” Matt asks as I pass his cubicle on the way to my desk.
It’s Friday, the end of the working week for most, but unfortunately, not for me. When you work seven days a week, they all begin to blend into one another. I’m bone-tired and want a sleep-in or have a lazy day chilling in my pyjamas.
“Can I let you know later today?”
“Sure, but I hope you can join us.”
“I’ll try my best.”
I guess one drink can’t hurt. It would be nice to make some new friends.
Things are back to normal between Spencer and me … by normal I mean platonic. We can be in the same room again without things feeling awkward. There have been no more kisses or anything close to that scorching moment of passion we shared last week.
It’s a shame because he’s a great kisser, but I can’t make the man want me if he doesn’t.
I don’t see him during the workday. He’s gone before I wake, but I’ve been cooking dinner for us in the evenings, so we get to spend quality time together then. It’s been nice. I enjoy being around him. Maybe more than I should. He’s made it clear where we stand regarding anything more than a friendship, but now that I’m privy to the dynamics between him and his father—and the disgusting type of man he is—I can’t fault Spencer for being turned off by our age gap.
In the beginning, I felt the same, but now that I’ve gotten to know him on a personal level, age seems like just a number.
When I reach my desk, I fish around in my handbag for my phone, so I can shoot off a text to Spencer.
Me: Good morning. You might need to order in your food tonight, I’m not sure if I’ll be home in time to cook.
Although he only requested an occasional home-cooked meal in exchange for room and board, I’ve prepared dinner every night this week.
I enjoy looking after him and the way he reacts when I do. Not only does that handsome face of his light up when he arrives home and finds me in the kitchen, but he also compliments my cooking prowess as he devours every morsel. It’s the first time in a long while that I feel seen, appreciated, and needed.
