Page 2 of Cruel Offer
Theo shakes his head as he skims through the article and then slips his phone back into his pocket before pegging me with a look of slight amusement.
“Remember how smug you were about landing the Barclays?” he ribs me. “Damn. Never saw this one coming. Surprised you didn’t sniff out the rat before we signed them. You’re usually so good at?—”
“Go ahead and give me shit,” I snap, “but this is a big loss for all of us.”
Sebastian leans back in his chair and shrugs. “It’s not that big a deal, Nate. Barclay’s daughter would have been a valuable asset, but we have plenty of other solid prospects lined up for our clients.”
I’m not appeased. Valuable doesn't eventouchwhat Piper-Lily Barclay would have been to The Quattuor Group in terms of adding a fresh layer of gloss to our reputation for arranging the best high-profile matches. The Barclay match would have carried both the celebrity status of a family akin to the Hiltons and the golden, old-money gleam of European royalty. But no. Everything is ruined.
“I’m not concerned,” Beck adds breezily. “Let’s move on to the quarterlyfinancials.”
I nod, flipping open the thick folder of statements in front of me. “Sure.”
“I’m just saying,” Theo goes on, a dog with a bone. “I was really looking forward to seeing how this match played out. But seriously, who the fuck would want her now?”
He shoots me a shit-eating grin, and I grumble and toss back the rest of my scotch with a hard swallow.
I can’t even argue with him. Because he’s right.
1
PIPER-LILY
August
My ballet shoes are the last thing I have to pack.They’re worn out and well-loved, the soft leather more gray than pink now. But I’d never consider leaving them behind. I’m too sentimental.
The court-appointed movers have already removed everything of real value. The house is empty and the sound of my breathing echoes off the Lincrusta-papered walls in what used to be my bedroom suite. It’s not my sanctuary anymore, though. It’s just a hollow, echoing room.
The gaping hole that’s grown increasingly wider inside me since finding out what my father did floods with a heavy ache. I spent most of my life in this house, in this room, and the unknown stretching out before me is more frightening than I want to admit. The moving company packed our six-thousand-square-foot penthouse in two days and whisked our things out of here with the swift efficiency and indifferenceof people used to avoiding wealthy people’s meltdowns when all of their precious things are torn away from them. I’ve never felt so lost.
My whole world has been pulled out from under me.
My father certainly didn’t make it easy on the movers as they worked. He rode their heels, yelling and cursing and trying to rip things from their hands. The police had to come, again, and force him to vacate the premises. Meanwhile, my mother stood by silently, watching with a coolness on her face that gave away nothing of her feelings. If she feels hatred for my father and what he’s done, how he’s betrayed us, it didn’t show. She’s an expert at hiding everything behind a perfect smile.
As for me, I never fully learned how to act calm and collected like her in stressful situations. Whenever something rocked our little bubble, I’d study her to see how I should react, to learn what was an appropriate response. But even if I managed a stiff upper lip, I couldn’t make it stick. My emotions always got the best of me and the tears would fall. I never understood how she could stand there and simply smile prettily during the worst of times, carrying on as if nothing had happened.
Even now, at nineteen, I’m still not sure how to feel about things, how to respond to them. So I don’t for the most part. I hug myself and keep my thoughts private and my words few. Pretty, but never heard. Just the way my father prefers me to be, anyway.
My insides burn with anger as his voice filters from somewhere in the house. It’s hard to tell where he is as his angry tone bounces off the naked walls and rooms with nothing to block the vibration. He’s yelling somethingabout his golf clubs, as if he’s reliving the horror of them being hauled away all over again.
This is his fault. Anything bad that happens to us usually is.
They took anything of value, including most of our clothing, all of our jewelry, even cosmetics and skin care products that were still sealed in their original containers. I was allowed to keep a handful of clothing and shoes deemed not worthy of auctioning off, and some personal items like photographs and generic trinkets I’d accumulated over the years.
My ballet costumes are gone. They took them all, from the very first rose petal pink tutu I wore when I was five, to the expensive bespoke Italian costume my mother had commissioned for my last recital. I made damn sure they didn’t get the pointe shoes my Nana bought for me that I’d worn for practice every day and had broken in just right.
My yawning walk-in closet feels massive as I slip inside and stare a moment at the echoing emptiness of it. Holding back tears, I go to the far end and kneel in the corner. Quietly and carefully, I work free a square tile of Egyptian marble and reach into the small hole in the floor underneath. My fingers meet the cool, smooth silk of the bottom of one shoe. Releasing a pent-up breath, I relax for the quickest moment at the familiar feel of the worn silk.
Hugging the toe shoes against my chest, I squeeze my eyes to dam the tears, but one falls down my cheek just as the downstairs front door slams open. More voices. Calm and reasonable, and then my father’s heated response. The movers are here to do a final walk through, and I’ll be damnedif they’re taking anything else from me. I fix the tile and slip the shoes beneath my hoodie.
Exiting the closet, I walk backwards to the door, taking every last second that I can inside the one place that brought me comfort. Footsteps cross the hallway floors and go up and down the staircases as the movers check every inch for anything they might have missed. I don’t know what they’re hoping to find.
I had no idea what a Ponzi scheme was until my father’s empire of lies came crashing down all around us. I still remember the night the police came while we were in the middle of eating dinner. Rosa was wringing her hands nervously in the doorway, looking more afraid of my father than the uniformed officers with their guns hanging from their hips. I’ll never forget the sound of the crystal butter dish shattering on the floor as Papa got handcuffed across table, the filet mignon dripping watery blood onto the linen tablecloth.
Reporters had flooded the sidewalk outside our building, and they kept calling us day and night trying to get their soundbites even after my father was released. He said the headlines were full of lies and that the media was twisting things just to get better ratings—and since he was home safe again and had reassured us that his lawyer was handling everything, I figured things would get sorted out soon enough. I think we were all in denial for the first few months, honestly.
I didn’t grasp the severity of the situation until my father’s car collection started disappearing from our private garage, followed by a letter I saw about the sale of my mother’s prized racehorses. My Bentley was missing when Iwoke up one morning, along with the diamond earrings and necklace my Nana had passed down to me for my sixteenth birthday. My mother tried to soothe my worried questions by saying my father just had to sell a few things to pay the legal bills, and not to worry. Everything would be fine.
