Chapter Thirty-Six
Dominic
“Her assistant says she’s busy until next year.” Brian’s voice over the phone is professional as usual, but tinged with frustration. He hates failure and loathes disappointing me.
“I see.”
“Do you want me to see if you can get an appointment in January?”
“No, don’t bother.” Elizabeth will come up with some excuse not to meet me.
Hanging up, I look out my living room windows, ignoring the huge pile of documents I brought home last night. It’s been ten days since we parted at the airport, and since then, she’s been avoiding me—ignoring my texts and calls. Even her office is united in an effort to keep us separate.
As though that will stop me.
A day after we returned to the mainland, a tabloid published an article detailing the deal Julian made with his kids over their grandfather’s portraits. Soon afterward, her brothers Ryder and Elliot responded, denying the allegation, describing it as the lurid figment of an overeager staff writer’s imagination. Most people bought the act—there’s a reason why Ryder Reed is one of the top stars in Hollywood. I didn’t, because I know the truth.
I tap the curved end of my armrest, thinking, then start writing on my phone. I’m tired of being ignored and avoided like bubonic plague.
Want to talk to you about the donation. If you don’t want to discuss it, that’s fine, but I’m withdrawing my support.
I don’t have to wait long before Elizabeth responds.
Your assistant has been informed of exactly what’s going to be done with the money. I don’t envision you getting involved in the project, especially when you’re going to be so busy with your venture in China.
Nice try. Holding my tongue between my teeth, I type, If this were my third or fourth major philanthropic project, maybe I’d be more blasé. But it’s my first. I want to be more hands-on, then hit send.
I understand. I’ll personally cover your donation. Have your assistant send mine details on where I should send the check.
Fuck. That isn’t what I want at all. I don’t give a shit about the damned money or what the hell she plans to do with it.
Stop avoiding me, Elizabeth. Talk to me.
I hit send.
The clock on my desk clicks off the seconds. I start tapping my desk to the tock-tock-tock, then jump to my feet and kick the chair. Argh. That stubborn woman!
My phone buzzes. I snatch it up.
Time and location?
Just three words. She must’ve thought long and hard before making the decision. Sitting back down, I type quickly before she changes her mind: Lunch. Today. 12:30. You pick the restaurant.
There. That should show her I’m determined yet reasonable.
She texts me an address. Given the terrible traffic in the city, I have just enough time to make it to the restaurant.
It’s a casual Italian bistro that somehow manages to serve all organic, gluten-free everything. Whatever meat they serve is free-range. Maybe it’s my working-class roots, but I can’t imagine how you can make pasta taste right without proper wheat.
Elizabeth hasn’t arrived by the time I step inside the cheery interior. The sound system plays Taylor Swift, which feels a bit jarring in an Italian place. A perky hostess—probably a college kid—takes me to a booth in the back.
Within a few minutes, Elizabeth walks in. She’s dressed impeccably, as usual, in a pink wrap dress and nude pumps. Pearls adorn her ears and throat, and her unbound hair gives her an air of carefree youthfulness.
As she sits down, I study her. What I see—a beauty so radiant it makes my eyes hurt—isn’t the full picture. I’ve witnessed how her makeup hides everything she doesn’t want on view.
“Elizabeth,” I say. “How are you doing?”
“Quite well.” She smiles, her head tilting slightly.
Her face is so perfectly composed and friendly. However, my gut tells me she’s anything but. I cock an eyebrow. “Really?”
Our waitress interrupts, wanting to take our order. Elizabeth chooses a salad with mini mozzarella balls and balsamic vinaigrette. I get the only option that looks somewhat appetizing—gluten-free low-carb fettuccine, which, when it comes, doesn’t even have the right texture. But the food is incidental.
When Elizabeth is done with about half her lunch, she says, “So, Dominic. What is this about?”
I consider, then answer honestly. “I wanted to see how you were holding up.”
A small smile pops on her face. “If you’re worried about the…package, don’t. The police are doing their best. This is a priority for them.”
I’m sure it is. She raised a huge sum of money for college scholarships for LAPD officers’ children last year. The chief and others will feel a sense of obligation.
“Besides, we have a good security team at the foundation, and Ryder’s mansion is like a fortress,” she adds.
“You’re going to continue to stay with your brother?”
“Yes. I’ve decided to be closer to the foundation for a while.”
Her expression remains serene, but I know there’s more. Unless I’m mistaken, she lives in Virginia. Julian lives there as well. And speaking of Julian…
“I read the article about your father and you and your siblings.”
“That tabloid nonsense?” She shrugs. “I’m surprised you follow such junk. It’s all lies. Ryder and Elliot already disavowed everything. Surely you’ve seen their interviews and statements.”
Probably everybody has seen them, but not everyone believes them. And there are people like me who know the truth.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” The words roll out before I can catch them.
She blinks once. “Have you given up on your plan to strip me bare and take what matters the most to me?” She looks at me, her expression somewhere between hope and resignation. And my answer catches in my throat. I’m not certain if I’ve given up on anger and pain, but I also can’t stand the idea of her hurting.
“Tell me what happened,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me how Dorothy ended up with something on you ten years ago.”
Her lips part. “That’s why you thought I was part of a plan to put you in jail.” She nods. “Now it makes sense.”
“I don’t think—”
“If I tell you, will you believe me? No matter how crazy and how different it is from what you’ve accepted as fact?”
The question hangs in the air, and I feel like a man at a precipice. If I make the jump, I can be on the other side, bright and sunny. If I slip, I’m going to fall into the abyss.
When I don’t answer immediately, she leans back in her seat and bursts out laughing. She looks toward the ceiling and blinks rapidly.
“Eliz—”
“Don’t.” She raises a hand. “I know.” She sniffs once, then collects herself. “Don’t ask to see me again, Dominic. I’m going to give you what you said you wanted. Then we won’t owe each other anything.” Her mouth curves into a brilliant smile, even though her eyes glitter with unshed tears.
The sight guts me, almost causing me to gasp at the searing pain deep in my chest.
You idiot. You never thought about what happens after…
I’ve read articles and books about how people struggle after achieving their goals because the goals themselves don’t deliver what they expected. The sense of accomplishment and pride is fleeting, and immediately followed by emptiness and feeling lost.
And right now, I feel just like that—even though I haven’t accomplished anything. “Elizabeth—”
“I wish you the best, Dominic. I hope you find everything you’re looking for.” She stands, grabbing her purse.
Then, very quietly, she walks away.