@BettencourtBets: A key player might b moving to the other side. Could change the entire game!

Reina

“What now?” Tristan sat up straighter, but didn’t take his arm from around my waist. That was good, because I was still reeling. He loved me. He shouldn’t, but he did. Love. The emotion took shape in my mind, resembling an exotic creature I had no idea how to care for. Did I need a license? Was there a course I could take?

“Bull Capital is going to submit an offer for the purchase of Bettencourt tonight,” Kyle said.

Tristan tensed, but otherwise remained stoic. “How do you know?”

“I have my sources too.”

“What kind of offer?” Tristan asked.

“We don’t know all the details yet. But word is that it’s fair—if Millennial implodes.”

I drew in a sharp breath, anger rushing through my veins like venom. My own flesh and blood was gunning for the man I loved. The man who just announced that he loved me too. I had to go. “Tristan, I’m going to run out for a few minutes.” My baby teeth were gone, and I wasn’t aiming for anything less than Van Horne’s jugular.

Preoccupied by strategizing with Kyle, Tristan barely acknowledged my comment. I slipped out of the office, closing the door behind me. If Van Horne was making an offer for Bettencourt, I was sure he’d be in his office today. I’d never been there before, but I knew exactly where it was. I stepped into the bathroom, intending to do a quick touch-up before walking over. One glance in the mirror told me that wasn’t going to be possible. Sure, my navy suit and basic topknot were fine for work. But if I was going toe-to-toe with my father for the first time in my life, fine wouldn’t cut it.

Leaving Bettencourt, I hailed a cab and gave the driver my address. Less than half an hour later I was peeling off the clothes I’d barely had time to wrinkle and stepping into my shower. Not that I was dirty, I just always seemed to do my best thinking in the shower. Something about the water cascading over my scalp helped clear my mind. I got out just before my fingers turned into prunes and began carefully blow-drying and straightening my hair. There would be no flyaways when I walked into Bull Capital. Foundation, powder, bronzer, mascara, lip liner, brow definer, a swipe of gloss. It was amazing how many products it took to look naturally flawless. But each step in my routine felt like another layer of armor. And I needed every advantage I had at my disposal.

My life was a dozen shades of gray, but I had a feeling Van Horne saw the world in only black and white. I reached for a white silk top, then a black St. John suit trimmed in white. A Hermès scarf, Louboutin heels and a vintage Louis Vuitton bag completed the look. Attending college in New York City had its perks. I had four years to learn all the best consignment shops so that when my signing bonus from Bettencourt had been safely deposited in my account, I put three-quarters toward the massive school loans I’d accumulated and bought a few statement pieces with the rest. Image wasn’t everything, but when you rubbed elbows with Manhattan moguls, it didn’t hurt to know the dress code.

I left my hair long, just as my mother had worn hers for years. Staring at myself in the mirror, I dared him to do the same and tell me he didn’t know exactly who I was.

On my way back downtown, an almost eerie calm descended with each passing block. This family reunion was long overdue.

Nearly twenty-four years overdue, to be precise.

I breezed past the front desk in the lobby, sending a confident smile to the two security guards blocking access to the bank of elevators. Without an ID badge, I should have checked in at the front desk. I should have had to prove that I belonged.

But they didn’t ask, and I didn’t offer.

Instead, I slipped into the elevator unchallenged. I didn’t need to ask what floor Van Horne’s offices would be on. The top, of course.

The doors opened to a floor that reminded me of the gilded age mansions I’d once toured in Newport. Marble floors, oversized chinoiserie pottery, mahogany accents, somber paintings in elaborate gold frames. Surprisingly, there was no receptionist hindering my entry onto the floor, and I walked through thick Corinthian pillars into a maze of cubicles. Straight ahead, a coterie of gray-headed men in navy suits was contained within a glass-walled conference room. At the head of the table sat the one I was looking for. His head swiveled as I walked toward him, only the slightest widening of his eyes hinting that my arrival was at all unexpected. It wasn’t much to go on, but it hit me like a shot of Red Bull poured into a crisp martini, giving me just the edge I needed.

As if in slow motion he rose, mouth moving as he excused himself.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone, probably the receptionist who should have barred my entrance, rush over, her face ashen. Van Horne lifted a hand, forcing her to a screeching halt before she skulked away. She would likely be packing her personal effects into a cardboard box before I returned to the lobby. I should have felt bad, but I didn’t. Van Horne was a prick. I didn’t know her, but she deserved better.

His polished wingtips came within an inch of my toes, his face close enough that his stale breath abraded my cheek. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

“You didn’t get the memo?”

His lip curled. “What memo?”

“It’s take your daughter to work day, Dad.” He jerked back as if struck, but I wasn’t finished. As close as he was, I leaned in closer. With my heels, we stood nearly eye-to-eye. “That’s what you’re trying to do by acquiring Bettencourt, isn’t it? None of your other kids want to work for you, so you’re trying to buy the firm that signs my paychecks. What else is a long-lost daughter to think?” I took a step back, gesturing with my arms. “So here I am.”

His eyes were so filled with fury they should have been bleeding. Even I couldn’t face them any longer. So I did the only thing I could think of that would piss him off more. I peered around him at the room full of men trying not to appear as if they were watching our every move.

And then I waved.

Daddy Dearest nearly choked on his own breath. His hand clamped down on my shoulder, fingertips burrowing through the lightweight knit fabric of my suit, and marched me into his office down the hall. No doubt I would see the bruises tomorrow, but I wouldn’t have dropped my smile if he’d ripped my arm out of its socket.

Displaying more self-control than I would have expected, he closed the door softly before letting go of me and seeking refuge behind his enormous desk. But he wasn’t getting away from me that easily. I followed him, dropping my purse on top of his keyboard and sliding my ass onto the polished wood surface.

“You asked for this meeting, you know. Not me. I’ve never asked you for a damned thing. Not once. Not even after you took my own mother away from me.”

Van Horne drew in a sharp breath as I crossed my legs, practically shaking with indignation that I had the nerve to plant myself on his seat of power. Not hiding my satisfaction, I watched him push back his chair to put more space between us. “What do you want?”

“I want you to keep your mitts off Bettencourt.”

His smug chuckle dragged across my skin like a rough rake. “You think I’m going to take orders from you?”

Quick as a cricket, I reached out and tugged a few strands of hair from his head, shoving it quickly inside my bra as he roared his outrage, slapping his hand over the tiny bald spot I’d inflicted. “What do you want to bet there’s a reporter waiting downstairs with a camera and a DNA testing kit?”

Van Horne’s amber eyes glittered with fury at my threat, the barometric pressure in his office plummeting. Any meteorologist could have come into the room and predicted a storm of global significance. In silence, we studied each other. Father and daughter. Rivals on opposite ends of the field. Not a word had passed between us until a few minutes ago, and yet I could see parts of myself in him. The arch of my brow, higher than my mother’s, was exactly the same as his. The golden tone of his eyes had been distributed within the green I inherited from my mother.

Van Horne was an attractive older man, the very definition of a “silver fox.” He had a few wrinkles, but not a single one of them could be called a laugh line. In a way, maybe I’d been lucky he never accepted me as his daughter. This was not a man I’d want to know. It took everything I had not to jump off his desk and run to the other side of it. Doubtless he was scrutinizing me, too. Good. Let him examine every inch of the daughter he’d rejected. I remained as still as the statue in the corner of the room, probably bought for millions at an exclusive art auction for only the most qualified (i.e., filthy rich) collectors. His eyes finally narrowed, mouth pursing for a moment before any sound emerged. “What were you doing with my son?”

Ah, there it was. The straw that broke the camel’s back. “You mean, my brother?”

“Is that what you want? You want to be a Van Horne?”

For a moment I simply stared at him. At this foolish, asinine man I was related to by some cruel quirk of fate. And then I laughed. Not the forced, polite kind. But a genuine belly laugh that had me wiping at my eyes. “You are so full of yourself, it’s hysterical.” But before he could kick me out of his office, I got a hold of myself. “I already told you what I want. Tell your gang next door to tear up the offer they’re putting together for Bettencourt.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You have some nerve, thinking you can come in here and give me orders.”

“You’re right, I do. And not only have you decided not to make a play for Bettencourt, you’re planning on investing in the Millennial Fund yourself.”

He pointed a finger at me. “So you do want my money.”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t take a dime from you if I was living on the street. No. Tristan is a skilled fund manager with the returns to prove it. He doesn’t need your help, and neither do I. But I won’t have you going after him just to get to me. If you want me, I’m right here.”

There was so much I wanted to say, the words were choking me. “And I’m not going anywhere, either. I let you take my family away from me all those years ago, but I’m done hiding. Whether you like it or not, I have a mother. And a brother. And two sisters.” I took a breath as we glared at each other. “And you’re going to tell them about me.”

“The hell I will!” he roared, the tips of his ears as pink as boiled lobsters.

“Oh, you will.” I looked pointedly around at his ostentatious office, finally swinging off his desk and taking a few steps toward the door. “Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure everyone knows just how much of a family man you are. You think you’ll ever get asked to give a commencement speech again if it’s public knowledge you didn’t even recognize your own daughter’s degree?”

“You wouldn’t dare embarrass your mother like that.”

I wasn’t altogether sure I would, but he didn’t need to know that. If there was one thing my upbringing had taught me, it was how to bluff. “You mean the same mother that walked out of my life with a Post-it?” My voice rose several octaves and I forced myself to breathe from my belly. Rounding his desk, I planted my palms on it and leaned forward. “The truth is, you have no idea what I’m willing to do. And it scares the shit out of you.”

He met my eyes, mutual fury warming the air between us. “Did Bettencourt send you in here to do his bidding?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m here on my own. But he knows exactly who you are, exactly what kind of man you are. And if you don’t want the rest of the world to have as little respect for you as we do, I suggest you follow my instructions to the letter.”

I got halfway to the door before I turned. “And don’t think I don’t know who was behind that Page Six story.” A wry smile twisted my lips. “Hedge Fund Harlot—I have to hand it to you, it was a catchy title.”

“I would have preferred that Bryce wasn’t involved,” he said, unashamed. “But he’s no stranger to appearing in society gossip rags all on his own, so it seemed fitting.”

“Maybe. But appearances can be deceiving. You had better get a retraction before it comes out that Bryce is really my brother. Whatever reporter you fed those photographs to will look like a moron.” I tilted 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.”

I almost made a clean exit, my hand less than an inch from the knob when Van Horne’s words sliced through the skin protecting my spine, swiftly delivering their intended jolt. “You know, your mother told me she was pregnant. I figured the odds were even that she was telling the truth, and maybe five to one that it was mine. But just in case, I gave her money. Told her to take care of it. If I’d had my way, you would have wound up in a medical waste incinerator.”

I arranged my face into a mask of derision before turning, but inside I was a boiling vat of rage and grief. “Then it shouldn’t come as any surprise you’re not going to have your way this time, either. I’m here to stay. Tristan and I are a couple, and I’m working for his company. 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 turned the knob. “You have twenty-four hours to tell my brother and sisters about me. And I’ll be watching Wendy’s show. If I don’t hear something about how Bettencourt’s Millennial Fund is being deluged with investors in advance of the lock-up period ending this week, it’s off to the DNA lab I go.” The heavy door closed with a boom, my own personal mic drop.

But not before I caught an expression on his face that I never expected to see, at least not directed at me. If we’d been in a crowded room, I would have assumed he was looking at someone else. Anyone else. But there was only me. It was just for a brief second, but it was there.

Strength respects strength. In spite of everything, in spite of himself, even . . . there was at least a small part of Gerald Van Horne that was proud of me for standing up for myself. Maybe it was just a glimmer, and a begrudging one at that, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel damn good.