Chapter 6
Today was “P Day”—Plans Day. All my sleepless nights, avoidance of a certain nameless, entitled asshole, and all the mascara I had put on had led me to this moment.
The evening before, I had presented to Mr. Killington’s team under Dad’s watchful eye. I was interrogated by men who had never even watched an HGTV show before. I answered questions I would bet money on they’d gotten off Google: what to say when you want to sound like you know what you’re talking about. They’d have been better off actually reviewing the materials I had sent in advance.
I received the endorsement of Mr. Killington’s assistant and financial advisor. Now either Mr. Killington would give his approval of my plan, or we’d be fired, face bankruptcy, lose any prestige my father had garnered after almost forty years, and squander any chance at my dream job.
No freaking pressure.
“Aren’t you spruced up, Dad.”
He straightened his tie, primping a bit for the camera. We had been texting all morning. Last-minute suggestions about the presentation, outfit ideas. The best tie for him (one that didn’t have Philippe replicas on it), the sweater that would imbue me with authority. Everything had to be absolutely perfect.
My lucky suspenders were hidden underneath my favorite blue cardigan, holding in my beating heart, ensuring it didn’t fly out of my chest.
“Still on the mend?” I slid my chair into place, adjusting the tilt of my iPad to get the angle just right.
“Practically back to normal.”
“That’s great.” It was a relief to see him healthy, wearing actual clothes and not onesie pajamas, the glow back in his cheeks.
This job may have fallen into my lap, but I wanted it. It was mine. My training wheels had to be taken off at some point. Even if I fell flat on my face, it was time to learn and prove myself. “When do you think you’ll be making it to the site, then?” I drummed my fingers on the table, not sure what I preferred his answer to be.
“Oh, I—” Dad’s gaze drifted away from the camera to some spot I couldn’t see. “Not soon. Some more recovering to do.”
“Dad!” If he was still sick, maybe I shouldn’t have left him. Why hadn’t Betty called me? Maybe I—
“I’m fine, I’m fine—promise.” He held his palms up as if to stop all my thoughts from running rampant. “But you are more than fine. I’ve seen all your drawings, your extensive lists”—he chuckled—“your contingency plans. You are beyond prepared. This is your baby.” It may have been me being hopeful, but there seemed to be a hint of pride in his voice.
I scrubbed my hand across my heart, crashing into a dose of reality. “I appreciate that, but Mr. Killington hired you, not me. We’re not the Price and Daughter firm.”
“We’ll go with Price and Price instead. If you do a good enough job, I’ll even let you be the first Price.” There was a flash of mischief on his face that warmed my chest.
“Not funny.” A smile broke itself free. He always knew what to say when I was nervous.
“I’m sorry.” He wiped the grin away—or tried to. The only person who thought Maurice Price was a comedian was Maurice Price. “But you truly have this. There’s nothing left for me to do—other than admire your beautiful sketches and pat myself on the back for how well I trained you.”
“Hopefully, I’m as humble as you in my old age.” A flush crept up my skin. He’d always been effusive with praise, but that he wasn’t coming spoke volumes of his trust in me.
“We can only hope, Bells, we can only hope. You don’t need me there, taking credit for your brilliance.”
I sucked in a breath, letting his words wash over me as they clashed with every doubt I had ever experienced. “And if I fail, we end up in debt, disgraced, never to work on another home again?”
“No idea where you get this tendency to exaggerate.” He winked at me. “If that happens, you can blame me entirely. It’d be like the time when we lived in that impossibly small cabin. Think of all the father-and-daughter bonding we could do.”
There were a lot of great memories from that year we had moved into a glorified log cabin, but I had also been seven. I groaned as the tightness in my nerves eased. I knew what we were waiting on, what he was distracting me from. The clock taunted me.
But I’d already allowed myself my moment of doubt a few nights ago.
The staff had been appropriately chagrined when they saw me for breakfast the next morning. Since then, there’d been no more mentions of the “sir” joining us or any new complaints about me overworking myself.
“All the blame?” I attempted to get comfortable, crossing and uncrossing my ankles, smoothing my hair, refusing to take another sip of water so I wouldn’t need to suddenly go to the bathroom. There’s nothing worse than being in a high-stress situation and needing to pee. Nothing.
“All of it. Make a doll with my face and stab it repeatedly.” He emphasized his point by punching his hand.
Which made me picture another face I wanted to punch. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“And how’s Philippe?” The casual air of his voice gave away how he had been holding himself back.
“Wow, you waited five whole minutes before asking about your favorite child.”
“Good—you realize your place.”
I heaved a sigh, more for him than anything. “He’s being well kept in a garage.”
“And are you …?”
“Driving him around every few days, even though I don’t go anywhere other than this decrepit estate, yes.” The eye roll was genuine this time.
“I earn that father-of-the-year mug you made me every day.” He raised it up, and I had to snort. I had painted it when I was six, and he still acted like it was the best gift anyone had ever given him, bringing it with us to every job.
The clock struck noon.
One of the grandfather clocks in the hallway clanged, my heart right along with it, just in case I wasn’t aware, giving the moment an ominous feel.
Right on time, Mr. Killington filled the screen, seated in his boardroom. A few employees sat next to him on either side, all dressed in suits. Their stooped postures deferred to him in every way. Even their chairs seemed to be lower.
“Price,” Mr. Killington barked, giving a perfect impression of his grandson. My primary goal was getting his approval, but a bonus would be for Mr. Killington to see the benefit of having Oliver vacate the premises. Immediately would be best.
“Good morning, sir,” I began. “I’ll start with our plans for the front foyer.” I clicked to share my screen.
“Why is a woman talking? I didn’t hire you—I hired Maurice Price. Price, talk.”
And now I knew where his grandson got his charm. “Sir, I’m Bellamy Price, his daughter. I am on-site.”
“And why isn’t Maurice?” He inquired as if the people there would provide the answers, or my father would magically pop up in the boardroom. We were already failing to meet his exacting expectations. A fine sheet of sweat broke out on my forehead.
“We contacted your office multiple times, Mr. Killington. I’m getting over a hospital stay, but Bellamy has kept me appraised and gone through the designs with me. She has done an excellent job of bringing out the original highlights from the home. She has more experience than I did at her age, or that most do in this industry.” Dad spoke in his quiet but firm tone. It usually worked, but this wasn’t a typical client. “An exceptional eye to detail,” he added.
“I’m paying a lot of money for this.” Mr. Killington’s gaze glanced away from the screen again. His features shifted as he seemed to receive confirmation. “And I’m paying for Maurice Price, not the unknown one.”
I wish I could say that was the first time I’d heard something like that. My youth, weight and gender they all worked against me in these types of situations, no matter how dressed up I was or that I’d spent an hour trying to subdue my hair. I’d stand in front of a group of old white men, and they would always prefer another man. They’d never consider that a woman might be in charge, especially one that looked like me.
It had nothing to do with the quality of my work. All Mr. Killington cared about was the name behind it. Being able to brag to his friends as they sat on their yachts, headed to their private islands, that the Maurice Price had worked on his home.
“We shouldn’t be paying Price prices then.”
His threat was delivered with a bit of glee; clearly he thought he was the first one to make the joke.
Dad refused to back down. “There is no one better. She is who you want on your project. And you’ll have the benefit of saying Bellamy Price restored your estate, which will only increase its value, I can promise you.”
Silence spread. Mr. Killington appeared to weigh my father’s words while I subtly wiped at the dust that had drifted into my eyes. The inside of this house required a power washing.
In view of the camera, Mr. Killington unlocked his arms and folded his hands on the table. “Fine, but I don’t have time for this presentation. I have one question, Miss Price.”
Sitting on my shaking hands, I gave a stiff nod.
Mr. Killington knocked once. “I’d like to see the plans for the west wing, which you have conveniently left out.”
Crap, double crap.I had tried to use the blueprints to flesh out what Dad had worked on years ago, but there was no way to fake it. Not with the level of detail I had gone into with the rest of the mansion. Despite my frustration with the jerk formerly known as “Beast,” I couldn’t force myself to invade his privacy and enter the west wing. The grief on his face as we’d stood outside the doors haunted me every time I considered it. This was what being a good person got me: screwed—and not in the fun way.
Before I could reply, Mr. Killington demanded for someone to “Get my grandson.” The people in the surrounding room burst into action; a cell phone was pulled out, the rest murmuring in a rising panic while my hands shook all over again.
I’m embarrassed to admit I assumed they were contacting some other grandson whom I had never met and who had never tried to banish me from his home. I lived in that fantasy world for only a moment, but it was glorious. Then another box popped up, and there was Oliver, sitting in the study downstairs, glaring at the camera.
“Ollie—good—you are at the estate?”
“Yes.”
It was touching to see he was as sociable with his family as he was with me.
“Excellent. This is what we are going to do. Ollie, you will oversee this restoration. To ensure that this project is going as planned and because of her”—his hand waved in what I had to assume was my direction—“inexperience, someone must command things.”
No one spoke a word as my dream became hitched to the person who despised me most in this world. This was a nightmare, and I couldn’t figure out how to wake up. We were going to be trapped together for the foreseeable future. There would be no getting rid of him.
“Ollie will provide my assistant with weekly—if, necessary, daily—updates.”
I stared at the box containing Oliver’s face, hoping to communicate he should back out, that surely his oversight was unnecessary. But nothing. As his grandfather shackled us together, he remained as stoic as ever.
“I’m not sure that is necessary.” My voice cracked as I tried to be authoritative, but I also understood that Mr. Killington could cancel the project or, at minimum, my part in it.
“I very much think it is.” His eyes narrowed at me. If the resemblance to Oliver hadn’t been obvious before, it was too pronounced now. “You have a strict deadline—I will be hosting an event at the estate to celebrate the end of the summer.”
The end of the summer?“That’s only six months from now.” My presentations had all included a projected timeline of one year. “I’m not sure—”
“I will not throw millions of dollars to an unknown without some guarantees.”
It was difficult not to gulp. These types of jobs with extensive structural issues were expensive. If more damage was found once we began, which was almost guaranteed with the state of disrepair, it would easily extend any timetable by another six months to a year. There were few professionals who had the required experience with these heritage homes. Panic was rising in me at the idea of completing this project within six months.
“This also aligns with our discussions, Ollie. It’s time you stopped hiding away and accepted your role in this company and this family.”
Every person on this call who didn’t have the last name Killington shifted uncomfortably in their seat.
Mr. Killington cleared his throat. When nothing happened, he cleared it again, tossing a pencil and hitting a man two seats down on his left.
The man shuddered before shuffling the pile of papers in front of him. “Mr. Oliver Killington, your grandfather, as you are aware, is in charge of your trust.” He coughed, and a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. “You are required to do the following by your thirtieth birthday, September third of this year.”
Good, in case Oliver had forgotten his own birthday.What was this family?
“You are required to accept an executive position in Killington Holdings and begin shadowing your grandfather, as well as establish a residence in the city. A timeline will be set to announce you as CEO.
“If you do not comply with these terms, you will only be eligible to receive a tenth of your remaining trust, in dividends, at the discretion of your grandfather.” With a swipe of his sweaty forehead, the lackey glanced at Mr. Killington.
“I am throwing an end-of-summer dinner party the last week of August. The restoration will be completed, coinciding with the announcement of your role within the company, Oliver.”
The pronouncement was met with silence. The panic wasn’t rising—it was fully enveloping my body. But Oliver hadn’t even twitched, as if he had been expecting this.
“I won’t fix the stock value,” Oliver finally responded.
Mr. Killington steamrolled forward, as if his grandson had never spoken. “Does that timeline present a problem for anyone?” His tone made it clear that no was not an option.
“We will have to pay a premium on materials in order to ensure that timeline,” I hedged. It was the truth. I needed the cheap billionaire to help me out with this impossible deadline in order to complete everything in less than half the time that I needed.
“Forward all receipts to my office. They will be paid promptly. I will also add a bonus incentive if everything is finished on time, if not early, and to my standards.”
I made one last attempt. “These projects are delicate, sir. It’s often not until you dive in that the structural and underlying issues are revealed.”
My father’s eyebrows raised, and it wasn’t at the thought of the money. I was committing to an almost impossible promise, setting myself and our business up for failure. That nightmare of ending up homeless and never working again felt like a real possibility.
But also, fuck Adrian Killington.
Mr. Killington rose to his full height, teaching me a thing or two about intimidation through a computer screen.
I held in my frustration. “Price Restoration is the best.”
“Good. The details about the party will be forwarded once I receive the plans for the west wing.” And with that, he was gone. A moment later, so was Oliver.
My dad and I were the only ones left. “Bells—” The concern was evident in his tone.
“It’s fine, Dad. Money talks, and I won’t be stingy with my estimates.”
“I believe you can walk on water and are the most brilliant person in the world, the single best thing I’ve ever done in my life.” I could hear it in his voice. There was a but coming. “But not even you can make the impossible happen.”
My emotions were sliding back and forth from What the heck did I do? to Fuck yeah, I can do this. “I got us into this mess, it’s on me to solve it.”
“All for one, and one for all,” Bl8z3 chimed in. It was still on my shit list, but I couldn’t deny the advantage it would be to this project, and I needed every advantage I could get.
This would either be the greatest accomplishment of my life or blow everything up.
The only way forward was to break into the west wing and ignore Oliver’s very specific instructions. Changing his mind seemed as impossible as the deadline I had been given.
The moment Dad signed off, I allowed one emotion to override the others. Anger. I was fucking furious at the audacity of Oliver to let himself become my unofficial boss for this project. Who did he think he was? After that disastrous almost-date, why would he even want to stay here?
The stakes had exponentially increased. Now he wasn’t merely being difficult; he was impeding on my livelihood. Unacceptable. I was going to be the Bib’s newest curator, and Oliver Killington would not stop me.