CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I open the package from the messenger and it’s all there—my clutch, wallet, keys, shoes, and phone. I open a long envelope, pull out a cashier’s check and stare. Twenty thousand dollars.
It’s real.
Dan is perched on the corner of my desk, watching over my shoulder. He gives a low whistle when he sees the check. “They really want this gone. Like it never happened.”
“I know,” I say miserably. “But now what do I do?”
“It’s up to you. You can sign the document, cash the check and put it all behind you. Or you can hold out for more.”
“More money?” My eyes are wide. I’ve never had anything like this in my life. My checking account stands at less than five hundred bucks, barely enough to keep me going until my next paycheck.
“I’d consider this a first offer,” Dan says. His dark eyes are calculating. “I think you should make a counteroffer. We’ll revise the contract from the messenger and you can take it back to Peter.”
I feel the breve in my stomach sour. I so do not want to face him again.
“You can do this. You want an apology, and you can get one. If this is the way he wants to play the game, you play it too—only bigger and smarter. I know you can.”
Peter thinks that money will keep me quiet, but money speaks louder in his world than mine. Suddenly, I have an idea.
“I think Peter has deeper pockets.”
Dan raises his eyebrows.
“Don’t you think he needs to make a donation? To a worthy cause?” I wink and a slow smile signals Dan’s understanding. I turn to my computer and Google charities that would be most appropriate.
The Manhattan Rape Crisis Line?
The New York Women’s Hope Shelter?
I remember one of the boards Peter’s mother is on and point to it on my screen. “How about the Safe Haven Network? They advocate for rape and abuse victims.”
“Perfect,” Dan says. I follow him to Keystone’s attorney’s office where we explain the details we want in the new contract. In less than an hour I have a fresh document in hand and I slide it into a large manila envelope.
“Good luck, Beryl.” Dan waves as I head out of the office.
***
The receptionist at Cartwright Collier Finch recognizes me and before I ask for Peter she tells me he’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.
“That’s OK, I’ll wait,” I say serenely, and park myself on a cream leather couch in the lobby. I hear the receptionist whispering into her headset and it doesn’t take more than a few minutes for Peter to push through the etched-glass door to the lobby.
“I thought I made it clear that we were done,” Peter says, his eyes narrowed. He tilts his head, indicating I should follow him to a conference room, but I stand my ground.
I don’t care who hears our conversation, but he does.
“I found a few issues with your contract. I wanted to come over here and iron them out so we can get this finished today,” I say with plenty of volume for the receptionist to hear every word.
Peter makes a move to take the envelope from me and I move it out of his reach. I raise my eyebrows. “Say ‘please.’”
“Please,” he growls, and snatches it when I offer it slowly.
He tears open the envelope and scans the contract language, his expression darkening, green eyes almost black.
“This is blackmail,” his whisper is hoarse.
“Not at all. I just thought you had some more apologizing to do.”
“This is a ridiculous amount of money.”
“Well then, there’s no need for us to discuss it further.” I make a move to leave, calling his bluff. As my hand touches the doors to the elevator lobby, he calls me back with a grunt.
“Wait.”
“I’m a busy girl, Peter. I think you’ve have plenty of time to become appropriately apologetic.”
He scowls and I feel more powerful than I’ve ever been. It’s that power over him that gives me the freedom to let go of the anger and fear from that night. I’m done, and I don’t care if he signs the stupid contract or not.
“Wait here. Please.” I can tell the last word is forced but I like that he has to say it.
Peter turns and disappears into his office. The receptionist looks shocked and I grin at her.
“What did you do to him?” she asks in awe.
“Just a little payback,” I say. “He owes me an apology and I’m here to get it.”
“I’ve never seen him apologize for anything.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Do you know him well?”
“I’ve only worked here for a few months.” Her eyes jump back to the logo-etched doors as if he might appear at any moment.
“Let me give you a tip—don’t go out with him. He’s a pretty rotten date.”
“Good to know,” she says. “Thanks.”
Peter returns in a few minutes with the contract and a checkbook in his hand. “Who do I make it out to?”
“The Safe Haven Network,” I say lightly and I see his face twist with fury. “And don’t forget to write ‘I’m sorry’ on the memo line.”
“Fuck you,” he snarls, scratching the words into his check violently.
“Like I told you before, Peter, no thanks. You’re just not my idea of a good time.”
He rips the check from his checkbook and hands it to me as if he’s holding a dead rat by its tail. I crease it once and tuck it into my handbag.
“The contract?” I prompt him. “I signed it already.”
He signs his name at the bottom where I’ve helpfully attached neon “sign here” stickers, then he gives me the duplicate copy.
“There’s a charity gala for The Safe Haven Network next month,” I tell him. “I trust I won’t be seeing you there?”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead there.”
“That’s the idea, Peter. Goodbye.”
I stumble out of the Wall Street office building into bright sunlight and oppressive humidity feeling alive and ready to tackle anything. I didn’t get the heartfelt apology I wanted, but I got the upper hand, and that makes me feel even better.