I left her tied up to give her some time to think. And to torment her a bit. Mostly, I left to clear my head. There’s no way I’m allowing the next thirty-six hours become the last time I have Riley. I can’t begin to explain this addiction. All I know is I have to have her.

It’s a ridiculous idea at a time like this. My father wants to mitigate the damage, and send a message at the same time. The legal team, well, they get paid very well to keep us looking squeaky clean, even if that involves bullying and heavy-handed behavior. The accountants wish they could turn back time, and erase the stupidest tax filing they have ever made public. The public relations team wants this tied up in a nice face-saving bow before Christmas in two days.

Bringing down Riley is the easiest solution to all their problems.

They need her to apologize with authentic-sounding contrition. As soon as she does that, they plan to discredit her by dragging her through the mud by making her family history as public as possible without incriminating our company. They won’t stop until she’s completely out of the picture. No one will want to see her hanging off my arm, or anywhere near me or Alexander Industries after the memory of this protest blows over.

Too bad they won’t get anything they want this time.

Speed-dialing my father before I lose my nerve, I walk into the study down the hall and lock the door behind me.

“What’s your update, son?” My father asks, getting right to it. “Hang on. Dustin is here with me. I’ll put you on speakerphone.”

“We need to meet in person,” I tell them both. “I have a solution, but you won’t like it.”

“That doesn’t sound good, Malcolm. Where are you right now? We’re on our way across town.”

“At the clubhouse.”

“I know it’s close to Christmas, but it’s still a work day, son.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m working, Dad. Trust me.”

I use the term ‘working’ loosely, but my father knows me well enough. Or at least he believes he does. In this case, working refers to the amount of energy I’ll use up as I fuck Riley hard.

I get back to the point. “Can you swing by? I’ll come out to your car. It’ll save you time. Ten minutes is all I need.”

Dad tells his driver to come my way. “We’ll be there in a few minutes. Come on outside now, so we don’t have to phone each other a second time.”

He hangs up. Having to argue my case to both Dad and Dustin at the same time will be tough, but the truth is, they know what’s at stake. They’re waiting for me by the time I get outside.

“What do you have for us?” Dad asks without so much as a greeting. He gets this way when he’s under stress. The pleasantries and decorum go out the window, only to be replaced by gruffness and a laser-focused mind.

I come right out with everything I’ve managed to arrange, except for the thirty six hours of kinky misbehavior at Riley’s expense. So far, they like what they hear. I add, “We’re hiring Riley Hampton.”

They both stare at me as though I grew a second head in the last three seconds.

“Come again?”

I clarify my statement by explaining that I would like the legal team to invite Riley to article under one of the senior partners. They are lukewarm on the idea when I remind them that if she has managed to figure out the connection between our firm and the two energy companies, we could have her apply her research skills to other internal items. What sells them is the idea that we keep friends close and enemies closer. Our employees sign an ironclad nondisclosure agreement. She won’t ever be able to go public.

Soon, Dad is on board and now Dustin carries on as if it was his idea. It’s perfect. Dad invites me to lunch with them. The topic of our midday discussion is tied to a bed inside the clubhouse, so I ask for a raincheck and return inside.

I believe I have met my match in Riley Hampton.

She is the side of me that I had to send into hiding back when I was eight years old. That was the year I learned about the legacy of the Alexander name. Up until then, I had no idea we were insanely wealthy, powerful or evil. Back then, in southwest Texas, my parents lived in the suburbs and even sent me to public school. A kid in my class brought a local newspaper to school one day. The headlines read, ‘Oil Giants of Alexander Industries Arrives: Malevolence Hits Home’. He told the class that it was about my great grandfather’s offshore oil rig explorations. I didn’t even know we had oil interests. I was eight. The kid repeated some choice words his father must have blurted out, and I distinctly remember my teacher telling the kid that it wasn’t polite to say mean things about classmates, even in this case where it was completely true.

I wanted to prove them all wrong. I needed to show them that my family wasn’t the same one portrayed as evil environmental murderers whose oil spills covered wildlife in oil leaks, and destroyed natural habitats. The memory of standing in front of my class is clear as day. I announced that I would take a signed petition home to my father. The request was for Alexander Industries to stop its offshore operations and look at better, cleaner forms of energy production. It was signed by everyone in the class, including my teacher, and I naively gave my word that my father would take care of everything.

I went home that day, and in addition to asking my mother if the article was true, I showed her the petition. She made me wait for Dad to get home. He decided it would be the dinner topic for the night. My father confirmed that we were old money, operating a set of businesses in a highly regulated cutthroat industry, and that I’d spend the rest of my life being hated for both facts. After dinner, he took me into the backyard and used his cigarette lighter to set the petition on fire. That was what he thought about finding cleaner forms of energy.

His parting advice before my bedtime was that I needed to toughen up. I toughened up, all right. Dad did not expect me to take his advice literally, but I did. Again, I was eight. I came home the next day with a note that confirmed the teacher’s earlier phone call to my mother, that I was suspended for beating the crap out of that kid with the newspapers. My mother finally put to rest the idealistic dream of raising me as a normal kid. That was the year they finally moved from Texas to New York. I was enrolled in private schools, forever to be surrounded by my wealthy peers.

Except, the experience stuck with me. It was one of those defining moments in a child’s life. I did not want to step into that legacy the way my father and grandfather had done. To this day, no one in my family or Alexander Industries realizes that I am still that kid with the petition. I may have graduated from an Ivy League school with a degree in business, but every optional course that I completed relates to environmental and conservation sciences.

Back when I finished college, my father told me I could do whatever I wanted. Working for the family business was optional. He would say that ownership and control were two very different things, and I didn’t need to have a position at Alexander Industries to benefit from the privileges of a controlling interest. I paid attention to every word my father ever took the time to share with me. Not to follow in his footsteps, but rather, to inject myself into Alexander Industries and toe the line. When the time is right, the kid with the petition will have his day as CEO and chairman of the board.

That kid is lying in wait.

Riley Hampton is that kid’s other half. Hiring her to work for the company benefits me in so many ways, I feel like a bit of a megalomaniac to know that all the pieces of the puzzle fit together so well. I should be thanking her for thrusting herself into my field of vision two nights ago, and demanding that I remember her name. It’s fate, and karma, and kismet all rolled up into one big, satisfying coincidence.

I can’t quite make this revelation to her just yet. She still has to pay for making it personal.

Or maybe it’s a reward for us both.