Embrace Me Forever (Hartley Brothers #3)

1. Georgia-May Williams

1

GEORGIA-MAY WILLIAMS

Colorado, USA – present time

Two years of living as Georgia-May has been a struggle, but it’s also brought me the greatest gift. My daughter, Coco-Rae. In a perfect world, we’d share the Langford name. But my spur-of-the-moment choice of Williams—my high school math teacher’s name and one of the most common surnames in America—gives me the anonymity I need.

The pain of losing Sebastian never fades. I wish he were here to watch our daughter grow and, selfishly, to help me through this. All I can do now is hold on to the love we shared and pour it into raising Coco.

“Ms. Williams?”

The voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Yes, that’s me,” I reply.

“Please, come in.” The doctor at Colorado Springs Children’s Hospital gestures toward his office. His calm demeanor does little to soothe the anxiety tightening in my chest.

We sit across from each other with a polished oak desk between us, Coco cradled in my lap. We exchange the usual pleasantries. How Coco’s been feeling, her energy levels, her appetite. I try to stay focused, but my mind is already bracing for the worst.

Then, it happens. The doctor’s expression shifts, his eyes softening with compassion and regret. “I’m sorry, but the tests show the tumor has returned.”

The room spins. For a moment, I can’t breathe, can’t think.

I hold Coco tighter. My girl has been so brave and patient. At just eighteen months, she’s endured more pain than any child should ever face. She beat the tumor once before she turned one. Her resilience amazes me, filling me with pride and deep, aching sorrow. I know she can handle this, but I’m not sure if I can. The thought of watching her suffer again shatters my psyche.

“How—how bad is it?” I try to steady my voice.

He takes a deep breath and then explains, “The tumor has advanced more rapidly than anticipated, but it’s still manageable. Immediate intervention is crucial, so another surgery is our best course of action at this point.”

“Okay. Whatever it takes,” I say, smoothing Coco’s sweat-drenched hair.

“We can arrange a payment plan similar to last time,” the doctor offers.

Last time, I had savings. Now, no payment plan will save me, and my casual work at the University of Colorado barely scratches the surface of what’s needed.

“Sure,” I reply.

“However, I need to inform you that the fees have increased. My fees remain unchanged, but the hospital’s charges have gone up, and they now require a higher down payment. Have you taken insurance coverage this time?” He knows I didn’t the last time, and it cost me.

But the mention of insurance sends a chill down my spine. Not that I can afford that, either. “No,” I admit.

“I’ll speak to management, see if we can extend the repayment terms.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

I drive home, my usually methodical mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear. Coco cries in her car seat, her tiny face contorted in agony. I keep glancing back at her, murmuring soothing words that I hope will bring some comfort, though I know they do little to ease her pain.

“I know, sweetie. Your head is hurting, isn’t it?” My voice cracks, wishing I could take the pain for her.

At last, we reach home. I give her the medications, praying they’ll bring the relief she so desperately needs. I sit by her side, stroking her hair, watching her drift off to sleep. The thought of her taking her last breath is more than I can bear.

As the pressure threatens to crush me, my sister Anne arrives home from work. On paper, Georgia-May Williams is a single woman with a Denver address. But in reality, Coco and I live with Anne in Colorado Springs.

One look at my face, and my sister knows the news is bad.

“Oh, Gi, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, pulling me into a hug.

We stand there, holding each other, until I finally pull back and wipe my eyes. “She needs another surgery, and I need to find the money fast.”

“I’ll get us a loan,” she says resolutely.

Anne knows I’ve been desperately trying to find a way to earn more, even before today’s news. But she doesn’t know the full story of what happened in England. The less she knows, the better for her safety. I’ve only been looking at math-related jobs—stable but low-paying. A lucrative position, the kind that could cover Coco’s medical expenses and keep us afloat, would mean sacrificing our anonymity.

We’re facing an impossible situation without insurance, a bitter irony indeed. But I’m under no illusion about Bertram’s continued interest in me. They’re cunning, and I can’t risk exposure.

I shake my head at my sister’s offer to help. “Anne, they rejected you last time. It won’t be any different now. Let me handle it. You’ve done so much for me already.”

“Hey, I’m your sister.”

Not wanting to dwell on my emotions, I shift into solution mode. “Help me brainstorm, then. Where can I get the money? And just to be clear, I’m not looking for a marriage proposal, okay?”

Her giggle fills the room, reflecting her usual tease about me finding a billionaire, steering clear of her so-called ‘commoner’ path. She’s overdosed on love stories!

“All right, no need to walk down the aisle,” she quips. “Maybe you could hustle a job with someone like Musk or Zuckerberg and turn the cash faucets on full blast. I know Bertram was a shark, but this time, you could be the one in control, sis.”

I shudder, the thought unappealing. “Nah, they’d probably drain me dry before they handed out a cent. I just don’t have that cutthroat vibe in me.”

Anne pauses, tapping her chin. “How about your university? Aren’t there any ridiculously wealthy benefactors who might be desperate for a slice of your brainy pie?”

Restraining a smile, I shrug. Most people think mathematicians huddle in ivory towers, scribbling formulas that unravel the cosmos. Sadly, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing to support myself and Coco. Not exactly the big bucks, and my allocated hours keep declining each month.

“I’ve got that computer science degree gathering dust somewhere…” I trail off.

“Maybe it’s time to dust off those old powers. What’s stopping you? Old coding flings haunting your hard drive?”

I let out a small laugh. “Something like that.”

The thought of dealing with machines again gives me the creeps—too many memories of Sebastian and the dangers of diving back into programming. It’s a small world, and a few keystrokes could tip Bertram off to my location. Besides, if I’m honest, my math skills have been in the spotlight for so long that my coding abilities are practically in hibernation.

Anne’s voice drops to a covert murmur. “Sounds like it’s time for a geeky awakening, Gi. Let’s reboot the system!”

Her enthusiasm brushes on me. The risk I’m considering doesn’t seem as daunting compared to Coco’s health. Pondering her wild ideas, I muse aloud, “So, what might billionaires need?”

“Fast cars. Beautiful women.”

I give a self-deprecating laugh. “Guess I’ll be no use, then.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. Cars exist because of numbers, right? People are obsessed with speed. Today’s fast is tomorrow’s slow. Plus, you’re an attractive mathematician. That’s the ultimate package.”

I roll my eyes. “Right, because every billionaire’s dreaming of solving equations with a hot math nerd.”

Anne bursts out laughing. “Exactly! You’re their ultimate fantasy. Those big gray eyes, full lips—totally natural, no filler—and those athletic legs. Though, maybe a trip to the salon wouldn’t hurt for a little hair makeover?”

I can’t help but smile. She always knows how to pull me out of my sorrow.

Anne then shifts closer to me. “Here’s another idea. They love luxury yachts, don’t they?”

Her words catch me off-guard. Although she might not be entirely serious, they stir a flurry of unexpected thoughts. “Well, the realm of marine technology and calculations arguably has more depth than its land counterpart.”

“What does that mean?”

I ask myself the same question. Naval engineering is unfamiliar territory, but at the end of the day, numbers are numbers. Whether it’s plotting the trajectory of a satellite or calculating the buoyancy of a yacht, the underlying principles don’t change. Algorithms and equations are my forte. What if I could concoct something so valuable that they’d happily fork over thirty grand on the spot?

“Anne, you’re a genius!” I exclaim, caught up in the excitement. “How many luxury yacht manufacturers are there in America?”

“No idea!” she shrugs.

“Probably not many,” I reply, grabbing my laptop and quickly searching online.

We scroll through the search results. Several companies pop up, but one name jumps out at me.

Hartley Marine.

I can’t go halfway. I need to aim for the biggest, the wealthiest, and this company seems to fit the bill perfectly.

My excitement grows as I click more links, revealing the profiles of the owners—two brothers named Robson and Clayton Hartley. They’re equally striking, though different. One is the golden boy, the other the dark knight. Their charming smiles beam back at me from the screen.

“These guys are definitely easy on the eyes,” I quip, mimicking Anne’s tone as I show her the photos.

Anne lets out a whistle. “It’s a sign, Gi! Two brothers for us sisters.”

I show her their Instagram profiles. “They’re married,” I point out.

“Oh, heartbreak hotel!”

“But we agreed. No walking down the aisle,” I remind her. “Maybe I can collaborate with them, keep it strictly business.” The idea solidifies as I think about Coco’s surgery.

“And do what exactly?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll figure something out.” My resolve is clear, even if the plan isn’t yet.

“What if they’re as bad as Bertram?” Anne asks, an eyebrow arched in concern.

“Now you’re playing devil’s advocate?”

“It’s a valid point, isn’t it?”

I sigh, pondering. “But this is for Coco. Maybe I need to, you know, set aside my moral compass for a bit.” But even as I say it, I know that’s not entirely true. Despite focusing on the money, I still have my ethics. I’ll deliver a solid product, and if I can help it, I want that product in the hands of good people.

Anne wraps an arm around my shoulders, offering a comforting squeeze. “Well, as they say, there’s a bit of good in everyone, including billionaires. I’m trying to stay positive for you, Gi,” Anne encourages. “Are they into any charity stuff?”

I continue scrolling, peering through various posts and articles. Robson, a dedicated father and former SEAL, holds the world record for speed on water. Clayton, also a father, used to be a fighter jet pilot and seems to have strong interests in basketball and Kenyan wine. Yet, there’s no mention of any charitable inclinations.

“So they’re the stingy type,” Anne declares with a huff, folding her arms.

“Well,” I muse, tapping my chin. “What if we try a little reverse psychology here?”

“Now you’re getting weird.”

“You’re used to my weirdness, aren’t you?” I counter. “Think about it. Maybe these guys are actually decent because they’re not out there bragging about their charity work.”

My sister shrugs. “All right, I’ll give you that.”

Curious, I type ‘Hartley Marine charity’ into the search bar, but the results are nearly nonexistent. It’s only when I dig deeper into the less prominent results that I uncover a short, old article. The main focus is Robson Hartley’s world record, with his donation to children’s mental health almost an afterthought. Intriguingly, he used his personal funds for the donation and shunned any publicity for his generosity. Further searching reveals another modest piece about his support for an organization aiding disadvantaged youth.

“Dang! I take back what I said,” Anne exhales, her eyes lingering on Robson Hartley’s photo. “I so wish he wasn’t married.”

Spurred by the discovery, I delve deeper into Clayton Hartley’s ties with Kenya. Buried in a seldom-visited corner of the internet, I find an article detailing his contributions to constructing a school near the Masai Mara. “Well, well, seems the Hartley brothers might have a few redeeming qualities,” I muse with a wry smile.

Anne laughs lightly. “Too bad they’re both off the market. Got any more brothers?”

“Oh, certainly!” I reply with exaggerated zeal, then let my smile slip into a smirk. “Matthew. He’s eleven.”

She rolls her eyes. “Great. Maybe there’s a gem among their board of directors?”

I flinch at the mention. “Please, don’t say ‘board of directors’ again!” The words conjure unwelcome memories of Bertram. Between my resignation and the night that changed everything, Bertram’s board bombarded me with calls and endless enticements to restart the project I’d initiated. When Sebastian said, ‘They’re coming for you!’ that night, it was clear the order came straight from them. Including the elusive puppet master, Abner Bertram.

Then, Coco’s cry travels from her bedroom.

“I’ll get her,” Anne offers, rising swiftly. “You keep working on what you need to. I know you’ll come up with something.” She plants a kiss on the top of my head before vanishing into Coco’s room.

Alone with my racing thoughts, I turn back to my laptop, my fingers hesitating above the keys. My resume as a university lecturer won’t be enough to captivate potential employers. I need something ingenious but, more importantly, something credible.

There’s only one person who can alter my past. At least on paper.

I launch the comm software on my laptop, a program I’ve built from scratch. As I input a sequence of digits, I notice the endpoint has shifted. “Of course you’ve moved,” I mutter, toggling the app into edit mode. Tweaking the code, I boost its ability to track IP footprints.

“Encountering a firewall, are we?” I continue, half to myself, as I deploy advanced network forensics. My coding prowess certainly hasn’t faded into the digital ether. “Bullseye!”

I type the command to call the returned number faster than a cat’s reflexes. “Cristo,” I greet him.

“Christ! I told you to destroy his phone,” the gruff, distorted voice replies, unmistakable even though we’ve only spoken once before.

“I did. But I found you.”

“No! You cannot find me.”

“Not your phone number, because it never was, was it? You used an IP-based ID, and I memorized it. Sure, you scramble it often. But don’t forget I know a thing or two about networks.”

He growls, his voice thick with frustration. “What do you want?”

“A small career boost, something in computer science.”

“I only deal with identities.”

“Employment is part of anyone’s identity. My boyfriend told me a lot about you. Should be as easy as your morning coffee.”

“Fine. But after this, you bugger off. Got it?” Even through the synthesized output, a hint of the Count of Monte Cristo’s British cadence slips past his usually measured tone. “I’ll sort out something that says you’ve been at Tesla for the last four years, covering up your stint at you-know-where.”

“Not too big, but substantial enough to showcase what I’m capable of. Think about a solo entrepreneur lending her services as a contractor.”

Another growl. “Give me a week,” he decides.

“Two days.”

“I’m doing you a favor.”

“And I’m asking it.”

“Three days,” he counters. “You’ll receive the details via snail mail, assuming you’re acquainted with the concept. And don’t ever call me again.”

The connection drops, leaving me engulfed in a storm of doubts and fears. Am I making the right choice, or am I about to dive headfirst into another disaster?

I pause, staring blankly at the screen. The faces of Robson and Clayton Hartley stare back at me. Can I trust them? Is this the best path for Coco and me, or am I grasping at straws?