Billionaire Grump (New York Billionaires #2)

Chapter 1

1

“Are you sure you want to do this, Ivy? I really think you’re making a huge mistake.”

I’m on the train, video chatting with my best friend Cleo, my hair tied back and my baseball cap pulled down low. I can always count on my level-headed bestie to be the voice of reason. “That’s definitely possible.”

I came straight from yoga, so I’m wearing leggings and a zipped-up hoodie, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

The train isn’t overly busy. It’s mid-morning on a Saturday and I’m on my way from Grand Central Station out to Stamford, Connecticut. I know I’m more likely to be recognized by the groups of college students and young couples who are filling the train than if I was on a Monday morning commuter train. Which is why I keep my cap low.

I don’t mind if people want to say hi. That part of being sort-of famous is kind of cool. Most people are nice. They tell me they love my music or that they follow me on social media, they ask for a selfie, then they get on with their day. It’s the silent, not-at-all-subtle filming and the stealth photography that freaks me out. I’d much rather people said something to me than try to stalk me when I’m sitting right next to them.

When I was sure no one was close enough to listen in, I called Cleo, who’s trying to talk me out of what I’m about to do.

“Ive? Seriously. This is a bad idea.”

I chew my lip, staring at Cleo’s concerned face on the screen, framed by her honey-blond curls.

“You’re probably right. But this isn’t about me, Cleo. I’m doing it for Josh.”

“Does Josh even want your father at his graduation?”

“I mean, he says he doesn’t. But deep down I think maybe he actually does. Graduation is a big deal. It might be nice for him to have…you know, a family.”

“We can be his family. Found family is just as good. And in this case probably better.”

“I know.” I do know. I’ve almost jumped off the train at each stop we’ve made. “But I figure there’s really nothing to lose by extending the olive branch one last time.”

Cleo sighs. “You’re a better woman than I am, Ive. If my dad ditched me and my sisters when we were kids so he could lavish attention all over his new family, I wouldn’t have spoken to the bastard ever again.”

I shrug. “Like I said, it’s about Josh.”

“Even if your dad did come to the graduation—which we both know is unlikely—Josh might feel more anger over the whole AWOL father thing than joy over a family reunion that we all know is too little too late. It seems to me you’re just inviting drama that no one wants.”

“Maybe.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Okay, yes. But maybe if our father sees what a great man Josh is growing into, he’ll realize he fucked up by walking away. If he sees what he’s been missing out on, it might make him want to be in Josh’s life a little more. And it might give Josh some closure. He’s just so pissed off at life in general. I was hoping maybe it would help.”

Cleo shakes her head. “It’s wishful thinking.”

“It’s hopeful thinking.”

I know Cleo means well, but it’s easy to judge when you come from the perfect family unit. Her parents are still madly in love after thirty years of marriage and support everything their children do—logistically, emotionally and financially. Cleo’s parents never missed a single piano recital, softball game or school play. Not to mention a single payment for the upscale boarding schools or the college tuition. Mr. and Mrs. Ellis were and still are the kind of parents you’d find in a Disney movie about suburbia gone right, a successful advertising executive and his well-presented, loving domestic goddess of a wife who baked, sewed and was the PTA member everyone liked. “Your dad knows you’re coming out to see him, right?”

“I sent him two emails.”

“Did he reply?”

I pause as a group of teenagers walk past me onto the train, hiding under the rim of my hat. “Nope.”

“But you think he’ll be there?”

Part of the reason I’m making this trip on the weekend is because my dad is a lawyer and he works at a law firm in Stamford. I didn’t want to visit him at work. A small part of me wonders if maybe his receptionists have been given strict instructions to turn me and Josh away, if we ever happened to turn up. At least if I visit him at home he has no buffer besides his trophy wife Anita.

But who knows, he might be a golfer or something, spending exorbitant amounts of money on country club fees and meanwhile disinheriting his two oldest children.

“If he’s not there after he’s seen my emails, then I guess that tells me everything I need to know. All I’m doing is taking him up on his offer to ‘visit anytime.’”

I cringe thinking about the lame Christmas email he sent. In January. His half-assed once-a-year attempt to keep us from being completely estranged. It’s almost more of an insult than if he totally pretended we didn’t exist.

Merry Christmas! I hope the two of you are doing well. Visit anytime! Dad.

She says it gently. “I think he already told you everything you need to know when he didn’t reach out when your mom died. I honestly don’t know how he lives with himself.”

“He did reach out.” With another one-liner, but still. “It’s just the way he is.” I don’t know why I’m defending him. Cleo’s right. This is probably an epically bad idea.

“Exactly.”

If it was just me, I wouldn’t be here. Dad didn’t come to my graduation or to our mother’s funeral, but he did send me an email when my debut single hit the Billboard Top 100. That, he cared about, apparently. “Josh is just so angry, Cleo. It’s not healthy. I worry about it.”

“He’s seventeen, Ivy. He’s a mess of angst and hormones. He’s also smart and successful and he’s about to start college. He’s going to be fine.”

“I know he is. And that’s the thing. I’m so proud of him. I want our father to see what a cool kid he is.”

“No thanks to him,” Cleo points out scathingly. “Basically the only thing he’s ever done for Josh is to donate a DNA sample.”

“Ew.”

She laughs. “Sorry. But seriously, you’ve done a good job, Ive. You’ve worked like hell to make Josh’s life easier, and you’ve done that. But he’s a big boy now.”

“I just don’t want him hating me ten years from now when he’s talking to his therapist and they’re discussing why I didn’t try to do more.”

Cleo twirls a blond curl around her finger. “Maybe it’s time for both of you to just let it go, honey, and get on with the rest of your lives.”

“I know. I will let it go, I promise. After this.”

Something in me is burning to tell my father face to face that we did it without him. We made it. We’re successful people. Our mom and her sister did everything they could to make a life for us after he traded us in for a newer model. They lifted us up. And we lifted each other up. Even without him, we didn’t just survive, we thrived.

Sort of.

“I want him to remember, even if it’s for one miserable second of his carefree new life, that he left us behind. I also want to watch him squirm when he’s forced to look me in the eye as he makes some excuse to miss his oldest son’s high school graduation.”

“Well, I wish you luck, babe. If you need some support after, come see us. We’ll be back around three.” She glances at her iWatch. “I better go. Sam will be back from the gym any minute and if I’m going to sell the idea of going downtown, I need to be on my A game. I might even have to resort to bribery. But call me later, okay? I want to hear how it goes.”

“Of course. Good luck with the registry.”

That’s another thing about Cleo that puts us in different universes. Not only does she have the perfect family, she has the perfect fiancé. She and Sam met as juniors in high school and have been sweethearts ever since. They haven’t set a date yet, but they’re in the process of planning for their wedding, which will no doubt also be picture perfect.

It’s icing on the cake that she also has a job she loves, as the assistant for Noah Maddox. He’s the CFO of Invested Enterprises, one of the hottest companies in the city that literally everyone wishes they worked for.

I’m beyond happy for my best friend. She deserves all of her good fortune.

But I also know she doesn’t entirely get some of the grittier details of my life, because she seems to have been born under a lucky star.

I’ve had to make my own luck, and I have, but it’s taken 24/7 of grit and hard work, every single day of my life, to get here.

We end the call, and I pull my baseball cap even lower, sliding on my sunglasses as the train slows to a stop. Stamford station comes into view.

I get off the train and order an Uber.

It’s a ten minute ride to my dad’s house, through streets that get progressively leafier, more manicured and lined with bigger and more ostentatious houses.

I’ve never been to Stamford before, or at least not that I can remember. Josh and I were both born in Bridgeport, where my parents lived together when we were very young. I have a few hazy memories of a white house. And slamming doors.

Only a few months after Josh was born, my parents went through a bitter, messy divorce. And then, after the three of us were cast out, we moved into my mom’s sister’s basement apartment in Bushwick, which is where we lived until around a year and a half ago, when I was able to buy the two of us our very own apartment.

Being both an asshole and a divorce lawyer, my dad was able to manipulate the child support payments into something that covered only our absolute basics, as he meanwhile married his pretty young secretary and continued to live a progressively more and more luxurious life. They have seven-year-old twin sons named Aaron and Adam who go to some elite private boarding school and who I’ve never actually met.

My father’s neighborhood definitely has that safe, privileged family feel that the wealthy suburbs are known for.

Oh the irony.

It’s not something I’ve ever dwelled on all that much—the kind of life we would have had if my parents hadn’t split up—but this is like a cold slap in the face.

When the Uber pulls up in front of the house, it’s clear that my father’s house is one of the biggest and showiest on the street. It’s a colonial style McMansion with columns and neatly-trimmed topiary bushes. It sits on a ridge and has a nice view. Not a single blade of grass on the freshly-mown lawn is out of place.

It’s the kind of house where kids could run barefoot through the sprinkler having water fights. Where you’d have backyard barbecues on hot summer days with fresh-squeezed homemade lemonade. Snowy Christmases with a real Christmas tree you went out and chose from the farm on a crisp blue day filled with laughter. Snowmen with carrots for noses in the front yard. You just know that, every year, the mountain of artfully-wrapped presents piled under the tree on Christmas morning for the excited little boys is absolutely epic.

My stomach twists.

It’s the perfect place to raise a family.

Just not all of his family. Only his favorite half of it.

There’s a car parked in the driveway, a sleek, expensive black Range Rover. Anita’s car, I’m guessing. No doubt my dad drives a midlife-crisis-style red convertible sports car.

Which means it’s either parked in one of the three garages or he’s not here.

He could have parked in the garage. He probably did.

But some sixth sense tells me he didn’t. It’s telling me he’s not here.

My heart is beating fast.

I could turn back now and keep my pride intact. I could save myself a face-to-face encounter with the woman my dad left my mom for, who I’ve met only once, years ago now. I could avoid the reality that he doesn’t care enough about me to be here, even when he knew I was coming to see him.

How hard is it to not be a total letdown for once in your goddamn life?

I almost get straight back into the Uber and request a ride back to the station.

But I’m here now. And maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe he’s inside with a fresh pot of coffee waiting, ready to listen and apologize and, for once, do the right thing.

I take a deep breath and walk up to the front door before I can second-guess myself. I raise the heavy knocker and let it slam loudly, three times.

No one comes to the door.

I wait.

I knock again.

Still no signs of life.

So, I reach for the brass door handle.

I don’t expect it to be unlocked.

The door swings open.

Shit.

“Dad?” I call into the hallway. The floor is tiled with white marble. High ceilings give the place a stark feel. There’s a modern (hideous) white chandelier. The walls are white, with white art and white furniture. Peering in, I can’t help but notice it looks like a very up-market dentist’s office. “Dad? Anita? Hello? Anyone home?”

There’s no response.

I bang the door knocker again.

There’s still no sign that anyone is home.

I wait probably a full minute, wondering what to do next.

Almost against my will, I step inside.

I’m rooted to the spot, not daring to go further now that I’ve actually strolled into my estranged father’s house.

What the hell do I do now?

I can’t just turn around, order another Uber and disappear back to New York. That would be too convenient for him. I want him to know I came. That I took him up on his empty promise.

From where I’m standing, I can make out the room on my left. The door is open and it’s filled with dark furniture—a nice change from the sterile front hallway. Bookcases, a heavy mahogany desk, one of those leather wing-backed chairs.

Dad’s home office, I’m assuming.

“Dad?” I call out once more. I told him I was coming. I knocked. I did all I could do to announce my presence.

I’m not breaking and entering. I’m his own daughter. His flesh and blood. I just want to leave a note. This isn’t illegal.

And now I’m standing in his office. There are built-in shelves with books and trinkets I don’t recognize. This man is a stranger who’s lived a life I have no connection to.

There’s a framed picture of Anita and my dad, at a beach somewhere. She’s in a bikini and looks every bit of her twelve years younger than he is.

There’s another framed photo, of the twin boys. I go over and pick it up, to take a closer look. As I do, of course I notice the glaring absence of us. I shouldn’t be surprised. There’s not a single shred of evidence in this office that Josh or I have ever existed. I’m so hardened to this by now, usually. But the in-your-face reminder hits me hard.

No picture of his other son, who’s so smart and handsome and who’s worked so hard to get into freaking Columbia. Why isn’t that good enough? Why were we never, ever good enough?

You cold-hearted prick.

The boys are dark-haired with green eyes that are very similar in color to our father’s. They’re beautiful boys. They’re identical twins and they look it. Neat haircuts and little ties. All dressed up for their photo shoot.

I place the photo neatly back on its shelf. On a whim, I take out my phone and take a picture of it. They’re my brothers, after all. I’m allowed to have one small keepsake of them.

Looking around, I have a very strong urge to leave.

If I leave a note, I will, of course, be incriminating myself. Announcing that I entered his house without being invited. Then again, the Visit anytime! comment is the reason I’m here. With an exclamation point and everything.

And this is the last time I’ll ever try. It’ll be a goodbye note. A fuck-you-and-have-a-nice-life final farewell.

I check the desk for some Post-Its or note paper. There are piles of paperwork covering the desk. There’s a Finlay & Hobbs Law mug filled with pens. I take a pen and carefully rummage to find a blank piece of paper. As I do this, a small stack of papers slide off their pile, fluttering to the floor.

Shit.

I pick them up, carefully trying to return them to the way I found them.

I can’t miss the fact that the page on the top of the pile is a bank statement.

Of course I shouldn’t look. It’s none of my business. But the numbers printed onto the page seem to take on an almost 3D quality, jumping out at me and insisting I read them.

It’s the number at the bottom of the page that catches my attention. A lot of zeroes tend to do that.

Six zeroes, to be precise, with two ones in front of them. The high-interest savings account is based in the Bahamas and holds…holy shit…eleven million dollars.

I read it again, as if there might be some explanation on the page.

The account is in his name. There’s no other conclusion to jump to. This is Roy Laine’s bank account and it contains Roy Laine’s money.

Eleven million dollars of it.

My chest aches with sadness. I shouldn’t be here and I definitely shouldn’t be snooping, but seeing this just about breaks my jaded heart.

I have to stop myself from ripping the statement to shreds, from pushing everything off his mahogany desk and letting it crash to the floor in a pile of chaos.

How long has he had this money? Where did it come from? I’m sure he’s making bank as a lawyer but this is some serious cash.

My dad is a moderately successful divorce lawyer, so he intimately knew the loopholes that would get him out of paying real child support. He went out of his way to not only abandon his family but to twist the truth and use his inside knowledge to corrupt the system—just so he could get out of doing the right thing by the people he was supposed to love the most.

The numbers are blurry now and I impatiently brush away tears.

Why did I come here? Cleo was right. This was a huge mistake.

Does he have no heart whatsoever? Did he really care so little for us that he would hide this from us to deliberately make our lives harder?

Does Anita even know about this? Is he planning a second getaway, leaving those little boys in the lurch like he did to us?

Fucker.

My emotions are raw.

I take out my phone and I snap a few more photos. Of the bank statement. The top page and several more. I make sure I’m thorough.

What are you trying to do right now?

I don’t know. Nothing. I just want to make sure I didn’t dream this.

Then I cover the pile back up with some other paperwork. And I scrawl a note.

Dad,

I showed up like I said I would. I came to tell you that Josh is graduating in June. He’s been accepted at Columbia and he’ll be starting there in the fall. It would mean something to him to know that you cared about any of the above. If you can make the effort to call me back, I could give you the details about maybe coming along to his graduation to support all his hard work and amazing achievements.

Your daughter,

Ivy

I leave the note on the white marble table in the white marble foyer of the gigantic house. Then I slam the door behind me.