Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Richard
"Sir, here's the information you requested on Nightingale."
I dropped the Asia-Pacific quarterly report the moment I heard that, reaching for the file David handed me.
More thorough than I'd expected.
Streaming revenue, performance cuts, monthly cash flow... My eyes paused on those numbers for a second. Not enough to cover one of Natalie's dresses. But honestly? Enough for her to live decently in Vegas. Maybe even save a little if she bothered being careful with money.
I flipped to the spending records. Recent purchases. Vitamins, folic acid supplements, loose casual clothes and dresses in soft fabrics.
Vitamins? I frowned but didn't dwell on it.
Maybe Vegas water didn't agree with her.
But those loose clothes... not her usual style.
She used to prefer cuts that showed her figure.
.. Come to think of it, when I'd lifted her onto that bathroom counter last night, she'd felt heavier than before.
So Natalie preferred whatever processed garbage Vegas served over the balanced meals I'd arranged for her every day. ..
No. I cut that thought short. That wasn't the point.
I'd given Natalie two months to learn how brutal the real world could be. Not to thrive in it.
Christ, she'd actually made a name for herself in Vegas. Hidden behind some silver mask, she still had people eating out of her hand on those stages.
The thought irritated me beyond measure.
"Sir, should I arrange a meeting between you and Nightingale?"
I took a deep breath after David said that. "No."
I hadn't sunk low enough to need David playing matchmaker between me and Natalie. She was my wife. Even if we were divorced now, I knew it was temporary. We didn't need intermediaries. No go-betweens.
I'd go get Natalie myself.
That plan lasted about a minute.
The office door swung open. Olivia wore a navy pinstripe suit today, classic power player, files in hand. She was already talking as she walked in. "Richard, the board called an emergency strategy meeting."
"Now?" I let out a cold laugh. "Whoever made that moronic decision can clear out their desk."
Olivia sighed, stepping closer. "I know, but Carlton's insisting. Says some traditional considerations need face-to-face discussion." She lowered her voice. "He brought two other uncles. Richard, if you don't show, they'll think you're disrespecting the family."
Carlton was my uncle, that old fossil who insisted on meddling in the company despite his age. Sometimes I thought running a multinational corporation was easier than dealing with these relatives.
The meeting was worse than I'd imagined.
Carlton sat beside the head of the table, silver hair slicked back, gripping that ridiculous ivory cane.
The proposal itself was a joke. They wanted to push a heritage line in European markets, emphasizing handcrafted quality and family legacy narratives. Sounded nice until I saw the budget—marketing costs triple the production costs, targeting distinguished elderly gentlemen.
"We need to solidify Winston's classic image," Carlton droned. "In these superficial times, quality and heritage are what—"
"Quality and heritage don't pay the bills," I cut him off, tossing the folder back onto the table.
The room went quiet.
"This proposal uses five-year-old data. Your target demographic averages sixty-eight years old. Know what their projected spending growth is over the next five years? One point two percent. Meanwhile, the luxury market for consumers under thirty-five is growing at twenty-two percent."
I leaned forward, sarcasm dripping from every word. "You want to spend triple the costs chasing a stagnant, shrinking market because of tradition? This isn't a business decision. It's you throwing the company's money at an expensive nostalgia party."
Across the table, some cousin, I couldn't even remember his name, cleared his throat. "Richard, that's not fair. Winston's foundation is built on these established clients. We can't abandon our roots—"
"Winston Group hasn't fallen so far that it needs to survive off geriatrics."
Carlton's face darkened. "Richard, is that any way to speak to your elders?"
"I'm just keeping business and personal separate.
" I straightened, adjusting my cuffs. "But if the next meeting brings more garbage like this," I jabbed a finger at the proposal, "wasting my time and everyone else's, whoever prepared this material can pack their things tomorrow.
Winston doesn't keep idiots on payroll."
Dead silence.
I checked my watch. "Anything else? No? Meeting adjourned."
I gave them one second. Nobody spoke. Satisfied, I turned and left, though I didn't need to look back to feel those stares burning holes in my back. Let them stew. These people had coasted on trust funds and the family name their entire lives, actually believing business was child's play.
Carlton followed me into the hallway, cane tapping.
"Richard, wait."
"Carlton." I stopped. "If this is about the proposal, talk to David. I'm busy."
"Not the proposal. You." He reached me, deep lines creasing his face. "You and that Green girl. You're divorced?"
"Yes." I wasn't discussing this.
"Richard, you're thirty-five. Your grandfather, your father—they both had children by your age." He lowered his voice with that self-important concern. "I know several well-bred young women. Good families, smart, refined. One's a Merlin, studies art—"
"Carlton," I interrupted, tone flat, "who I marry, when I marry, whether I have children—that's my business.
I don't need anyone's input." I stepped closer, using my height advantage.
"And if you try meddling in my personal life again, I'll reassess the necessity of that do-nothing position your son holds.
His annual salary could hire three executives who actually work. Clear?"
Carlton's mouth opened, his face flushing red, then white. His throat worked, but nothing came out.
I patted his shoulder. "Enjoy retirement. Family matters—I've got them covered."
Walking away, that fire in my chest hadn't cooled.
An heir? Of course there'd be one. The Winston family needed continuity. My empire needed a successor.
But that child would be mine and Natalie's.
No question.
I drove to Natalie's hotel.
This five-star establishment might look respectable to most people.
But standing in that lobby, scanning the space, I could tell it was cheaper than the worst place I'd ever stayed.
The mattresses probably ran under two grand each—inadequate support, guaranteed backache after one night.
Natalie used to sleep on a custom orthopedic mattress.
For someone her size, she was pickier about that than I was.
I approached the front desk. The young man recognized me immediately. After I asked about Nightingale, he checked the system quickly and told me, "Mr. Winston, Nightingale checked out this morning."
"When?"
"This morning."
So Natalie saw me at the gala last night and couldn't wait to bolt? Why? Just because I'd driven her back? She was that desperate to get away from me?
Damn it.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Natalie's number. Four tries, straight to voicemail every time.
Swallowing my anger, I dialed another number.
Second ring, he picked up.
"Mr. Winston! Wow, didn't expect to hear from you!" Ryan's voice bubbled with excitement. I could picture him practically bouncing. "Is this about future collaborations? We're ready whenever—"
"Where's Nightingale?"
"Huh? Nightingale? She... isn't she back in Vegas?
" Ryan sounded confused. "Afternoon flight.
Her manager Emma notified us this morning—said Nightingale had a sudden medical emergency, had to cancel all California appearances.
.. God, the penalties aren't cheap, but Emma insisted on paying them, said the artist's health came first.. ."
I nearly laughed.
Natalie, your lying skills are still pathetic.
"How serious is her condition?" My voice was eerily calm.
"Details were vague. Emma didn't elaborate, but she was adamant.
We offered support, medical care arrangements, but they insisted on leaving immediately.
.." Ryan paused, probing carefully. "Mr. Winston, you seem very concerned about Nightingale.
Do you have a... particular interest in her?
If you'd like, I could try contacting Emma again, arrange—"
"Don't bother." I hung up.
I'd given Natalie time. Thought she'd come around, realize how stupid leaving me was. I'd even tolerated her little games these past months—the divorce, running away, singing in those dive bars. Figured it was her way of venting. That she'd get bored eventually.
Instead, Natalie ran from me again.
This avoidance was a direct challenge to my authority.
I called David.
"Get me a plane to Vegas. Now."
Did Natalie think Vegas was safe? That I couldn't find her there?
She was dead wrong.
When the private jet took off, Los Angeles's lights shrank into a glittering sea below.
I sat in the cabin, whiskey in hand, untouched, mind full of Natalie.
Her masked face at the gala. Her trembling breath in that bathroom, trapped between me and the counter. Her rigid posture in my backseat, like a cat ready to jump through the window.
And earlier. Two years ago, that charity gala where we first met. When she'd grabbed my tie and pulled me into the backseat, eyes burning with raw, untamed desire. That Natalie and the docile Mrs. Winston who came later might as well have been different people.
I'd thought I'd tamed her. Now that seemed like the real joke.
The plane touched down in Vegas around one a.m. A car waited on the tarmac, driver silently handing over keys. I slid into the driver's seat, entered the address David had sent—Canvas Apartments.
The building stood downtown. Not tall, maybe fifteen stories, exterior bland beige brick. Nothing like Blackwood Manor.
I got out. Night wind carried Vegas's particular restless heat, mixed with distant casino noise and music. Fireworks burst somewhere west, bloomed, faded.
I straightened my shirt, buttoned my jacket, and headed for the entrance.
Natalie lived on the fifteenth floor. I stepped off the elevator into a hallway with worn but clean carpet, dim lighting. Found the unit number David sent. Stopped.
Light seeped under the door. Natalie was home. Good. At least this trip wouldn't be wasted.
I raised my hand and knocked.
Natalie, we're meeting again.