Chapter Thirty-Five
Elizabeth
My Monday morning—when I arrive at the foundation’s office—is filled with dealing with the detective assigned to the…package case.
Slightly balding and with a florid complexion, Detective Nolan has a presence as big and comforting as Santa Claus. He does his best to use a calm and confident voice, letting me know he’s got this.
He asks all the predictable questions. Ex- and current boyfriends. Any threats, verbal, written or otherwise. Former employees who might bear grudges. And so on.
I bring Andy up when the detective probes about my past relationships, but don’t tell him the whole truth. Andy’s referred to as a guy I had a few dates with some time ago who I ran into last weekend. Dominic’s a generous donor to a new cause I’m hoping to champion.
Only when it comes to Nate do I tell everything—he and I are good friends, and it would be impossible for him to do such a thing. He adores dogs.
I thank the detective for his time and effort, then take care of some foundation business. Threats or not, work must go on. I can’t let so many people down just because of some personal problems.
My office is the largest at the foundation, immaculate with Persian rugs and large windows. The oak furnishing and the sedate pale cream and yellow color scheme are something Grandma Shirley chose when she took over the family’s philanthropic efforts and folded them into the foundation. I kept both, not wanting to waste money on redecorating even though Patrice thought it would be acceptable to change a few things. My desk has nothing but a few neatly stacked documents for me to review. I grew up having a messy desk, but Grandma Shirley cured me of that.
I lean back in my seat and look at the framed photos of people the foundation’s helped since I took over. They look at me from the built-in shelves, their smiles brilliant. I wait for satisfaction to stir, but instead, I feel like the walls are closing in…and suddenly, I can’t breathe. My vision starts to blur, and the smiles grow dim behind an oppressive fog settling over me.
Everyone wants a piece of me, and I’m running out of pieces—a broken, nearly empty vessel. A scream wells within me.
Shut up, shut up, shut up! You’re doing meaningful work. Stop being selfish. Stop being ungrateful. Everyone the foundation has helped deserved it.
Guilt grinds me down, and I try to concentrate on breathing steadily in and out. I don’t have time to waste. There are people counting on me to deliver. I can do and become what I want after every child in the world is fed, educated and cared for.
Rhonda leaves early in the afternoon to pick up her girl, who isn’t feeling well, and then it’s just me, Patrice and a few other people on the floor. I keep my office door open as a gesture of invitation for anybody to drop in if they need to chat. It’s one of a few areas where I’m different from Grandma. She preferred to keep herself away from the employees.
At around six thirty, my phone beeps. I pick it up and see a text from Tolyan.
Need some damage control.
He sends a link to some kind of tabloid site, and I click it.
In red capital letters, the headline declares: GREEDY BILLIONAIRES CLAMOR FOR MORE.
The basis for the inane proclamation is accurate—the deal Dad has with us, plus how Ryder and Elliot married so quickly afterward. Clearly, someone has provided inside information.
Why marry for a reason as crude as money when they already have so much? the article asks at the end, and I shake my head.
It’s an idiotic question. When you have a certain amount of money, financial gain stops being the primary driver. It’s usually something else—the adrenaline rush of winning, proving that you’re better than the competition or something personal.
The reason for our marriages isn’t something as crude as money—it’s the love we have for our grandfather…how fiercely we long to possess his legacy. I don’t know what Dad’s going to do with the other paintings he inherited from Grandpa, but I doubt he’ll hand them over to us. So the least we deserve is the portraits he specifically said were ours to keep—and look at any time we felt doubts about our self-worth or were facing criticism.
Sighing, I start to call Ryder, but he reaches me first.
“Did you see that bullshit?” he asks without preamble.
“Yes. How’s Paige holding up?” She’s already gone through a horrible social media backlash over marrying him. Apparently, unless you’re model thin and plastic-surgery gorgeous, you don’t deserve to be with a hot movie star.
“She’s surprisingly calm.”
“Good,” I say, even though I’m a little worried. She’s pregnant, and already has enough to deal with.
“I’m going to arrange a call with Blake, Elliot and Lucas after dinner to figure this out. You should join us.”
“Dinner, or the call?”
“Both.”
I shake my head. I don’t know how he can eat.
“I know you’re going to want to skip dinner,” he says, “but you shouldn’t let some trashy rag keep you from taking care of yourself.”
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll join you and Paige.”
“Good.” He hangs up.
Leaning back in my seat, I stare out in the empty cubicle area. What delicious gossip this is going to make. This is something I hate: the spotlight, speculation and judgment—positive or negative—from strangers.
Irritated and resigned, I get up. Ryder’s right. I should choke something down, just to show the jerks of the world they can’t affect me, and then help my brothers figure out how to fix the problem. At least I’m not alone in this fight.
* * *
Elizabeth
In spite of his earlier pep talk, Ryder doesn’t eat much, and neither does Paige. I don’t care for the food either, even though the chef made me a lovely enchilada and salad.
We also don’t talk about the article, doing our best to pretend it’s just an ordinary day. We discuss our work instead.
My phone beeps and rings a few times—texts and calls from Dominic. He sent me a couple last night too, which I ignored. And I’m ignoring these. I can’t deal with him, not right now.
Maybe not ever.
Although I nurse a vodka, the tension in my gut ratchets up when the conference with my brothers and their wives starts.
Blake starts off with blaming Dad, apparently not caring that Lucas is late.
“Fucking Julian,” he says. “It’s gotta be him.”
“Annabelle Underhill knew we had to marry,” Paige says, making sure we have all our suspects in a row so we can pick the right one. “She said as much at the charity dinner Elizabeth organized with Nate Sterling.”
“If it’s Annabelle Underhill, I’ll take care of it,” Elliot says.
I cringe. I hope it doesn’t involve publishing another lurid article about how she and he did something inappropriate together. “How about Mira? Didn’t she know?” I ask, in case we’re overlooking her.
“She did,” Ryder answers, “but she wouldn’t spill the beans. Her agent contract came with an ironclad NDA. She might be a backstabbing bitch, but she wouldn’t do something to make me an enemy for life.”
Suddenly the line beeps. I sigh. Finally, Lucas.
“How the fuck did you get this to leak?”
“Hello, Lucas,” Elliot says to his twin with a deep sigh. “I didn’t realize you were going to join us.”
“I wouldn’t normally, but did you have to fuck this shit up? What the hell is wrong with you guys?”
“Inbox bursting with marriage proposals?” Blake says.
“No. I was on the verge of… Fuck!”
“Just tell her the truth and get her to sign an NDA and prenup,” Ryder suggests. “Women aren’t stupid. They’re gonna know if you’re faking affection.”
“Can’t. It’s Ava,” Lucas says.
Oh no. Ava and he used to be so close…until he had the accident that left him scarred and limping, and she vanished. Apparently my anonymous hint about her whereabouts worked, but I didn’t realize he was thinking about marrying her…and apparently because he really wants to, not because of the portraits. Although I’m certain Ryder and Elliot both love their wives dearly, their marriages did start out on a more…transactional basis.
“I’m so sorry about that,” I say. “But we didn’t do anything.”
“Oh, I know you didn’t, Elizabeth,” Lucas says. “But Ryder and Elliot?”
“That’s not fair,” Ryder protests. “You think I want this shit out there?”
“Don’t you? It gets you media attention.”
Ryder’s laugh is harsh. “‘Media attention.’ I’m already world famous, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Stop fighting,” Elliot says. “We have to do damage control, and it’s got to come from me and Ryder.”
“I’m supposed to trust you guys now?” Lucas snarls.
“We’re the ones who are married,” Elliot points out. “It’ll sound better coming from us.”
“So categorically deny everything?” his wife, Belle, asks.
That poor woman. She’s probably overwhelmed by all this. Paige is much calmer. She knows what kind of a circus something like this can become, having worked as Ryder’s assistant for years.
“No, that would be a lie,” Blake says thoughtfully. “It’s always best to fight truth with truth.”
Lucas says, “Not a terrible idea, except the truth doesn’t help us here.”
“Everyone knows Elliot isn’t the type to marry just to get a painting,” Blake counters. “And Ryder wouldn’t marry his assistant over something as ridiculous as this…and start a family.”
“Think that’ll be enough?” I ask.
“It has to be. It’s the only thing we can say.”
“It’s all about the delivery,” Ryder says, all professional and actor-like now. “Definitely no written statement, at least not on my part. I’m scheduled to be on a bunch of talk shows this week to start laying the groundwork for promoting my next movie. So I can mention something there. Very casually, but with enough scorn to make people feel like idiots for believing the rumor.”
“That’s all fine and good, but when we get our paintings a year after all of us are married, it’s going to confirm the rumor was right,” Lucas says.
True. Another reason for Tolyan to hurry.
“Is anyone going to be keeping score by then?” Elliot asks.
“Let’s worry about that later,” I say. Hopefully it won’t come to that…and it won’t, if I have my way. “What matters is taking care of this mess for now.”
“You okay?” Elliot asks.
No. I have a psycho stalker who sent me a vacuum-sealed puppy. Who knows what this news is going to do to him? “I’m fine. I just don’t like having this out there. I’ve got enough problems.”
He sighs, probably assuming I’m annoyed about potential fortune hunters and garden-variety stalkers.
“Okay, then problem solved for now,” Ryder says. “Elliot and I will deal with it; the rest of you sit tight.”
“If you screw things up, I’m going to break your pretty face,” Lucas growls.
“Fine. But when I fix the problem, you owe Paige an apology. She’s rather fond of my face.”
Lucas curses, but at least he’s not yelling anymore.
“When are you marrying Ava?” Elliot asks.
Ugh. Elliot can be so brilliant…and so stupid.
Lucas laughs maniacally. “After this shit? I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t spit in my face.”
I ask that we end the call soon afterward since I don’t want my brothers fighting. It’s time to unite and form a strong front against the world like we always do when we have a common enemy.
Half an hour later, my phone beeps. It’s a text from Tolyan.
Your brother’s not as foolhardy as I thought. The text has a screenshot attached to it.
It’s Elliot on Twitter and Facebook: Wow. Do I look like the type who gets married just to get a painting?
Not bad. He isn’t lying, but people will start to doubt the tabloid article simply because of his reputation.
Over the next several days, Ryder’s on TV, casually mentioning how much he adores his wife and how much he worries that malicious gossip may affect her “delicate condition.” He’s so convincing, the audience on the talk shows laps up everything. I swear, he could claim horseshit really came from cows and people would believe him.
So far so good. Andy’s been staying away as well, probably because Dorothy took my warning seriously. Still…
She and her husband won’t outlive their son.
Will he then go on a horrible rampage? Dorothy and Chuck have been keeping him in check, ensuring he doesn’t attack women or do anything to break the deal those two and I have.
Tolyan offered to end the problem—which I’m certain will involve Andy’s…disappearance—but I just can’t agree to his method. I can’t bring myself to look the other way, which is all that Tolyan asks. “Think of it like squashing a cockroach,” he said…but people—even people like Andy—aren’t bugs.
Still…
Once the business with the portraits is finished, I’ll have to find a more permanent solution to Andy Brown.