Chapter 1
Peter
“Baby, I’m cold.”
With a groan, I opened my eyes and looked to my right. My girlfriend, Pamela, was lying in bed, next to me, with an annoyed look on her face.
“Get a blanket,” I muttered, my voice still thick with sleep.
“But I’m cold now,” Pamela whined. “You get it for me.”
I pulled a pillow over my head and closed my eyes, hoping to drown out the obnoxious whine of my socialite girlfriend.
“Baby,” Pamela whined, making the two-syllable word an easy four syllables. “You’re the man, you’re supposed to help me,” she added, squealing with frustration.
I sighed. So much for getting more sleep, I thought angrily. She’s such a spoiled brat!
“Baby,” Pamela repeated. “Hello, Peter, are you there?”
“Yes,” I hissed through clenched teeth, sitting up and throwing the pillow to the side of the room. “Look, it doesn’t matter – it’s time to get up anyway.”
Pamela gave me a doe-eyed look, pulling the sheet over her rail-thin frame. For a moment, a faint stirring of tenderness welled up inside of me. Pamela and I had been together for almost five years since the night we’d met at my twenty-eighth birthday party. At first, I’d been smitten with her. She came from one of New York’s most prominent families, she was gorgeous, and she had a giggle that made me think of an Old Hollywood actress.
But now, five years later, Pamela’s antics were wearing me thin. I’d spent thousands of dollars on practically every cosmetic procedure in the book for her – trimming her nose, shaving her chin, sculpting her already-gorgeous cheekbones even higher. Now she looked like a pin-up in a girlie magazine. I couldn’t deny that this look was appealing, too, but it had seemed that with every procedure, Pamela became less and less human to me.
And now I felt like I was sitting in bed with a robot. A gorgeous, blonde robot…but a robot all the same.
“Peter, get up and turn off the air conditioning,” Pamela whined. She’d pulled my blanket over her naked frame, and she was pouting up at me, biting on her artificially enhanced lower lip.
I frowned.
“Peter, god, what is wrong with you this morning,” Pamela grumbled. “Seriously!”
“Do it yourself,” I said, yawning and rubbing my eyes with both hands. “Pamela, you’re not a child.”
Pamela stuck her lower lip out even more. “I know,” she said, sniffing as if I’d somehow offended her. “I’m already twenty-seven, which is practically ancient! Did you know I’m the only one of my friends who isn’t engaged?”
I sighed. “Not this again,” I said, shaking my head. “Pamela, I’ve told you – I’m not ready to make that step.”
Pamela sighed as if I’d just told her that the world was collapsing.
“Peter, I want to be your wife,” Pamela said. Her nostrils flared. “I’m ready to settle down, to have your kids!”
“I don’t think I am,” I said honestly. Crossing the room, I yanked off my silk boxers and tossed them to the floor. Taking a fresh pair from my wardrobe, I pulled them on, followed by a pair of expensive wool trousers and a white button-down shirt.
The soft footsteps behind me indicated Pamela hadn’t heard a thing.
“Peter, you don’t even listen to me,” Pamela whined. “What’s the point of even talking to you?”
I sighed. I was getting so sick of dealing with her shit. Every night was the same thing – we’d meet up once I left the office, go to dinner, maybe get a nightcap on the way home. Pamela would be giggly and sexy and fun, nipping at my ear in the back of the limo on the way to my condo. But every morning, she turned into a whining banshee, obsessed with marriage, unwilling to let me go without a fight.
“I don’t want to do this right now,” I said, turning to Pamela as I buttoned my shirt to the collar. “I really don’t want to fight this morning.”
“Well, we don’t have to fight,” Pamela said crossly. She stuck her tongue out at me and whirled around, prancing back to the bed. Her golden curls bounced on her tanned shoulders, and I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at her sculpted and toned ass.
“Fine,” I said. I crossed the room and took my favorite tie from the nightstand – a tie my father had given me on my twenty-first birthday, from a famous French couturier.
Pamela sat on the bed and stared, sticking her lower lip out to new heights. As I laced up my leather shoes and tucked my laptop inside my briefcase, she made a variety of annoying noises and whining sounds.
“Wait,” Pamela said, when I was almost out the door. “You’re just going to leave me?”
“Well, yeah,” I said, shaking my head. “I have to go to work. I have a meeting with my father.”
“But Peter,” Pamela said, narrowing her eyes. “We were in the middle of a conversation!”
“No, we weren’t,” I said. “All I said was that I didn’t want to argue with you. And then you decided to sit there and pout.”
“Peter!” Pamela stood up and crossed her arms over her chest. “You cannot just leave me like this!”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Pamela, it’s what I do every day,” I said irritably. “I go to work. I come home from work. Then we go to sleep, and guess what? In the morning, I get up and go back to work! That’s what being the son of a corporate executive means!”
Tears welled up in Pamela’s cornflower blue eyes, and I knew I should feel bad for yelling at her.
But right now, the only thing I felt was desperation to leave my condo. I stared at Pamela for another few seconds before stomping out of the condo and slamming the door behind me.
My driver, Renaldo, was waiting for me on the street. He smiled courteously at me before opening the door to the backseat of my limo. I slid inside without making eye contact. As usual, the sight of my limousine attracted a lot of attention. Despite living in one of the toniest areas of Manhattan, there were always gawking tourists and people trying to snap photos. When I was in a better mood, I’d laugh and smile and call out that they were wasting their time and film – after all, I wasn’t a celebrity.
But on mornings like this one, I just felt irritated.
Had things always been like this? Somehow, I found that hard to believe. When I’d first met Pamela, I felt like we’d been happy together.
Then again, five years is a long time to fall out of love with someone.
The traffic was heavier than usual – by the time I walked into the vaulted glass offices of Spyros Magnate, it was fifteen past nine.
“Mr. Anastas!” My secretary, Evangeline, chirped loudly. Evangeline, an older woman in her late fifties, had almost been more of a mother figure to me than a secretary. She’d been sitting in front of my office for the entire thirteen-year period in which I’d been working for my father, and I couldn’t count the number of times she’d helped me out of a jam.
I made a face. “Sorry, Evangeline,” I said. “There was bad traffic.”
“Mr. Alexander is looking for you,” Evangeline said. She passed me a towering pile of memos. “He called six times in the past five minutes.”
I groaned. “I am so sorry,” I said. “We had a meeting.”
Evangeline gave me a sympathetic smile. “Trouble at home again?”
I sighed. “I don’t really feel like discussing it at the moment.”
Evangeline nodded. “I have your coffee in your office,” she said. “And don’t forget – there’s a client coming in at three, and I’ve got you scheduled for dinner with Ryan.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Evangeline, I forgot all about the dinner, is it possible to reschedule?”
Evangeline eyed me suspiciously. “Of course, Mr. Anastas.”
“You know what, forget it,” I said. “On second thought, don’t call him. I’ll make the dinner.”
Evangeline nodded. “Very well, sir,” she said. “Now you should really get upstairs!”
With a deep sigh, I pushed into my office. I’d completely forgotten about meeting Ryan, my best friend, for dinner. As much as I didn’t feel like wining and dining out on the town tonight, I didn’t much feel like going home to see Pamela, either. Ever since Pamela had moved in with me, she’d barely worked. Occasionally, she donated money to charity and held balls, but for the most part, she spent her days sipping rosé and shopping. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d come home to the scent of a fresh, home-cooked meal…or even a positive greeting, other than “did you buy me a ring yet?”
I was really going to have to do something about this.
I drank my espresso in one gulp, straightened my tie, then used the private staircase in my office to ascend to the executive level where my father had his own offices. My father, Alexander Anastas, had started Spyros Magnate back in the nineties. He was the son of a Greek shipping magnate, but the oil prices made that career too unfeasible…so he went into consulting instead.
And one day, I was expected to inherit the whole kit and caboodle.
When I got upstairs, my father’s door was closed. I sighed before knocking.
“Come in!” His voice was so loud that the door shook.
I rolled my eyes and pushed open the door.
“You’re later, Peter,” my father said.
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “There was traffic.”
My father narrowed his eyes. Despite being father and son, we barely resembled each other. My father is tall and muscular, with swarthy skin and a mop of black curls. He always had a five o’clock shadow, even immediately after shaving.
“Aren’t you going to apologize?”
I sank down in a squashy couch to the side of my father’s desk. “I don’t see a reason to,” I said curtly. “You’re my father.”
My father narrowed his eyes. “I am also your boss,” he said. “You should show respect.”
“This isn’t the old country, it’s New York City,” I said. “We’re not in Greece anymore.”
My father sighed heavily. “Peter, this is about your future – and the future of this company.”
“I know.”
“No, I’m not quite sure you do,” my father said. “Why haven’t you asked that lovely woman to marry you yet?”
“Oh, god,” I said, burying my face in my hands and groaning. “Not you, too!”
My father sighed in disgust. “Peter, she’s a perfectly suitable woman. She comes from a well-bred family, and she knows how to act in public.”
“And she’s a selfish, demanding bitch,” I said, shaking my head. “She wouldn’t be a good mother to our children.”
“Peter, that doesn’t matter – they’ll have nannies, and they’ll be in private schools, regardless,” my father said angrily. “Do you think I chose your mother because I thought she would be a good mother?”
I rolled my eyes. “Evidently not,” I said. “I barely remember seeing her. Do you remember what my first word was?”
My father didn’t reply.
“It was Helen,” I said. “You know – my nanny?”
My father shrugged. “And you turned out perfectly well,” he said. “Now, it is your turn to choose a bride.”
“I’m not ready to get married,” I replied. “I would hope you could respect that decision.”
“You’re going to have to grow up,” my father thundered, anger seeping into his voice for the first time. “You think it doesn’t matter? Have you forgotten our contract?”
I sighed. “No,” I said. “And let me remind you – I’m only thirty-three.”
My father threw his head back and laughed. “You’re a fool,” he said. “It takes ten months to make a baby, Peter. And that’s if your wife gets lucky on the first try! If you cannot produce an heir by the age of thirty-five, this company and everything that comes with it goes straight to Agnes!”
I stared. My father had always threatened me with that, but until now, I’d never thought that he was serious. Agnes, my younger sister, was in no way equipped to deal with such a responsibility. At twenty-five, she was still a girl – she wasn’t even out of graduate school yet!
“You wouldn’t do that,” I scoffed bitterly. “You wouldn’t take this company away from someone competent and reward Agnes for doing nothing but flunking out of every Ivy in the country!”
My father narrowed his eyes. He looked every inch the angry Greek patriarch.
“Try me,” he growled. “Because I’ve about had it, Peter. Now get out of my office.”
I sighed. I knew the battle was over…and as usual, my father had won.
--
The rest of the day felt like torture. I looked at my phone once – the screen was full of missed calls and texts from Pamela – before tossing it into my briefcase and trying to shove all thoughts of my girlfriend out of my mind. By the end of the day, I was parched for a drink. After saying goodnight to Evangeline, I grabbed my bag and headed out.
Ryan, my best friend, met me outside of a little Italian restaurant in the Village. He grinned when he saw me, and we did our secret fraternity handshake before heading inside and sitting at the bar.
Before I even sat down, I flagged a waiter and asked for a beer. As soon as he’d run off, Ryan turned to me with a smirk on his face.
“That bad, huh?”
I rolled my eyes. “We aren’t talking about me today,” I said.
Ryan snickered. “Poor little rich boy,” he said. “Had a bad day at the office.”
I groaned. “Shut up.”
Ryan laughed. “Man, I’m just giving you shit,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said dryly. “I know.”
The waiter returned with my beer, and I took a long drink before pulling my phone out of my pocket and looking at the screen. There were six more missed calls from Pamela, and twenty texts. Rolling my eyes, I turned my phone off and threw it in my bag.
“Damn, man,” Ryan said. “You’re really in one bad mood.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, that’s what happens when your father decides to yank your company away from you for no good reason.”
Ryan shrugged and gave me a guilty grin. “Must be a nice problem to have,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said sarcastically. “My life is just amazing.”