21. Becca
Becca
T hree days later, I find myself standing at my parents' front door, my finger hovering over the doorbell. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. Telling them about Clive and me shouldn't be this nerve-wracking, but the Jamisons have always had high expectations. And I've always tried desperately to meet them
I finally press the bell, hearing the familiar chime echo through the house. Mother's heels click across the marble foyer before the heavy oak door swings open.
"Rebecca," she says, her face perfectly composed as always. "You're three minutes late."
"Sorry, Mother. Traffic was terrible on Park Avenue."
She air-kisses both my cheeks, the scent of Chanel No. 5 enveloping me. "Your father's in his study. Dinner will be served at seven, precisely."
I follow her through the grand entrance hall, past oil paintings of stern-faced Jamison ancestors. The Upper East brownstone hasn't changed since my childhood—still impeccably decorated, still impossibly cold.
Father looks up from his desk when I enter, removing his reading glasses.
"Rebecca," he says with a curt nod. "You're looking well."
"Thank you, Father."
Dinner is a quiet affair, the clink of sterling silver against Limoges china the loudest sound in the room. Mother asks polite questions about my latest event planning projects. Father inquires about the stock market. Neither mentions Jack.
Until dessert.
"So," Mother says, delicately placing her spoon beside her crème br?lée, "Jack called us yesterday."
My stomach drops. "Did he?"
"He seemed quite upset," Father adds, watching me carefully. "Said you'd left him. For his stepfather, of all people."
I put down my spoon, my appetite gone. "That's not exactly how it happened."
"We assumed as much," Mother says, surprising me. "Jack has always had a flair for the dramatic."
"You're not... upset?"
Father actually chuckles. "About Jack? Hardly. The boy's been riding Clive Bishop's coattails for years. No ambition of his own."
I stare at them, stunned. "But I thought you liked him. You always seemed so pleased when he came to dinner."
"We liked his connection to Clive," Mother corrects. "The Bishop name carries significant weight. Jack himself..." She waves her hand dismissively.
"So you're not angry that I'm with Clive now?"
"On the contrary," Father says, actually smiling. "Bishop Global Security is poised for an extraordinary year. And Clive himself is a self-made man. We respect that."
Of course. It's about status and connections, not my happiness. I should have known.
"I'm moving in with him," I say, bracing for their reaction.
Mother raises an eyebrow. "Before marriage? How modern." She dabs her lips with her napkin, but there's no real disapproval in her voice.
"We're taking things slowly," I explain, still waiting for the judgment, the lecture about propriety and reputation that never comes.
"Clive Bishop is forty-six, correct?" Father asks, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler.
"Yes."
"A good age. Established. Mature." He nods approvingly. "Unlike Jack, who at twenty-eight still behaves like a college freshman."
I can't believe what I'm hearing. All these years, I've been terrified of disappointing them, of making choices they wouldn't approve of. And here they are, practically giving their blessing to my relationship with a recently divorced man nearly twenty years my senior.
"I thought you'd be upset," I admit. "About the age difference. About how quickly things happened after his divorce."
Mother waves her hand dismissively. "The Bishops' marriage has been over for years. Everyone in our circle knew it. Kay only stayed for the lifestyle."
"And the Bishop name," Father adds. "Though I hear she's keeping it, despite the divorce."
"Of course she is," Mother sniffs. "Her maiden name was utterly forgettable."
I push my dessert around the plate, processing this unexpected turn. "So you're... happy for me?"
They exchange a look I can't quite decipher.
"We want what's best for you, Rebecca," Mother says, which isn't exactly an answer. "And Clive Bishop is certainly a step up from Jack Hanson."
"He's a man of substance," Father agrees. "Not just riding on his stepfather's success."
It's the closest thing to parental approval I've ever received, even if it's wrapped in their usual pragmatism about social standing and financial security.
"Thank you," I say, because I don't know what else to say.
Mother glances at her watch. "Now, tell us about this event you're planning for the Whitaker Foundation. I hear they've increased their budget."
And just like that, we move on. No more questions about Clive, no inquiries about my feelings or how this all came to be. Just business as usual in the Jamison household.
As I drive back to my apartment later that night, I call Clive.
"How did it go?" he asks, his deep voice instantly calming my nerves.
"Surprisingly well," I say, still somewhat shocked. "They actually prefer you to Jack."
He chuckles. "Smart people, your parents."
"They're pragmatic. Your name and company impress them."
"And here I thought it was my charming personality and rugged good looks."
I laugh, feeling the tension of the evening finally leaving my body. "That part they don't know about yet."
"When will I meet them?" he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
"Soon," I say, navigating through the nighttime traffic. "Though I should warn you—dinner with the Jamisons is less a meal and more a strategic business meeting with food."
"I've survived hostile takeovers and board meetings with Russian oligarchs. I think I can handle your parents."
His confidence makes me smile. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
When I get back to my apartment, I kick off my heels and curl up on the couch, my mind still processing the evening. My phone buzzes with a text from Jack.
I’m humiliated. All my friends have heard that you’ve hooked up with my stepfather.
I stare at the message, anger bubbling up inside me. After a moment, I type:
That’s not my problem. I haven’t announced anything. If they know, it’s because you or your mother told them.
Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear.
This isn't over, Becca. You'll regret this.
I block his number without responding. I'm done letting Jack Hanson make me feel small.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of my buzzer. When I check the intercom camera, I see a delivery man holding a massive arrangement of peonies—my favorite.
"From Mr. Bishop," the delivery man says when I open the door.
The card reads:
Counting the days until you're home with me. -C
Home. Such a simple word, yet it fills me with warmth. My apartment has never felt like home. My parents' house certainly never did. But when I think of Clive's penthouse, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park and bookshelves filled with well-read classics, something inside me settles.
At work, I throw myself into planning the Whitaker Foundation gala. It's my biggest event yet—a thousand guests, a five-course meal, and a silent auction expected to raise millions for children's literacy.
"Becca, there's someone here to see you," my assistant Lucy says, poking her head into my office around noon.
Before I can ask who, Jack strides in, dressed in a tailored suit, and holding a small bouquet of wilting roses. It’s a fantastic metaphor for the state of our previous relationship.
"You need to leave," I say, standing up. "I'm working. I won’t have you sabotaging my livelihood."
Lucy hovers at the door, clearly sensing the tension. I give her a subtle nod, and she backs out, closing the door behind her.
"Five minutes," Jack says, tossing the roses onto my desk. "That's all I'm asking."
I cross my arms. "I blocked your number for a reason."
"Because you're not thinking clearly." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I once found endearing but now recognize as purely theatrical. "Becca, this thing with Clive—it's insane. He’s too old for you. You said you wanted a family. There’s no way he wants to start over at his age.”
"Is that what Kay told you?" I shake my head. "Of course it is. She wanted more kids when they got together and he said no."
"He doesn't care about you," Jack continues, his voice taking on that condescending tone I've heard too many times. "He's twice your age. What could you possibly have in common?"
"More than you and I ever did," I reply, surprised by my own boldness. "Now please leave. I have work to do."
Jack steps closer, lowering his voice. "What about our plans? The house in Greenwich we talked about? The future we were building?"
"You mean the future where I kept waiting for a proposal that never came while planning other people's weddings? The future where you constantly reminded me I wasn't quite good enough?" I feel years of pent-up frustration bubbling to the surface. "That future?"
"That's not fair," he protests. "I was waiting for the right time."
"Five years, Jack. And the 'right time' somehow never arrived."
His face hardens. "So you jumped into bed with my stepfather instead? Real classy, Becca."
The old me would have apologized, would have tried to make him feel better. But I'm not that person anymore.
"Get out," I say quietly. "Or I'll call security."
He stares at me for a long moment, then grabs the roses from my desk. "You'll regret this. When he gets bored with you— and he will —don't come crawling back."
After he leaves, I sink into my chair, hands trembling slightly. I reach for my phone and see three missed calls from Clive. Before I can call him back, there's a soft knock at my door.
"Everything okay?" Lucy asks, peering in cautiously.
"Fine," I say, straightening my spine. "Just an unwelcome visitor. If he comes back, don't let him in."
"Got it." She hesitates. "There's, um, another visitor for you. A Mr. Bishop? He says he's your... boyfriend?" Her eyebrows lift in question.
My heart skips. "Yes, he is. Please send him in."
Clive fills the doorway, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that makes his blue eyes even more striking. He's holding a bag from my favorite deli and his expression is both concerned and tender.
"I thought you might need lunch," he says, closing the door behind him. "And company, after Jack's visit."
I blink in surprise. "How did you know he was here?"
"He called me, ranting about how I'd stolen you away." Clive sets the bag on my desk, the aroma of fresh bread and roast beef making my stomach growl. "I was worried he might try to see you in person."
"Just missed him," I say, suddenly feeling exhausted. "How did he seem on the phone?"
Clive's jaw tightens. "Entitled. Angry. Threatening. The usual Jack performance." He pauses, studying my face. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." I reach for the food, needing something to do with my hands. "Better than fine, actually. I stood up to him for once."
Clive's smile reaches his eyes, creating those crinkles I've come to adore. "That doesn't surprise me at all."
"It surprised me," I admit. "And I think it shocked him too."
He comes around the desk, turning my chair to face him as he crouches down to my eye level. "Becca, you're stronger than you give yourself credit for. Always have been."
His hands rest on the arms of my chair, not touching me but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. Here in my professional space, with the door closed and my assistant undoubtedly gossiping outside, I should feel uncomfortable with this intimacy. Instead, I feel protected. Seen.
"I’m so relieved my parents are supportive," I say. "Although, I’m still shocked by that turn of events."
"I look forward to making a good impression when we meet." His eyebrow raises in that way that makes my stomach flutter.
"I don’t think that will be an issue. They like your resume better than Jack's," I explain with a wry smile. "Your money impressed them."
He laughs, a deep rumble that warms me from the inside. "Ah, I see. Not exactly a ringing endorsement of my character."
"They don't know your character yet," I say, reaching out to straighten his already perfect tie. "But I do."
His eyes darken slightly as he catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. "And what is your assessment, Ms. Jamison?"
"Excellent leadership qualities. Superior problem-solving skills." I lean forward, lowering my voice. "Remarkable kissing technique."
"That last one isn't on my LinkedIn profile," he murmurs, his lips now at my wrist.
"Exclusive content," I whisper, my heart racing. "For select viewers only."
The intercom on my desk buzzes, making us both jump. Lucy's voice comes through, professional but with a hint of amusement. "Becca, your two o'clock
is here. Should I tell them you need a few more minutes?"
I clear my throat, pulling back from Clive reluctantly. "No, send them in. Thank you, Lucy."
Clive stands, straightening his jacket with that easy confidence that still makes my breath catch. "Duty calls. Dinner tonight?"
"I'd love that," I say, quickly checking my reflection in my compact mirror to make sure my lipstick hasn't smudged. "My place at eight?"
"Perfect." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Becca? Pack a bag. The movers are coming tomorrow for the rest of your things."
My heart flutters. "Already? I thought we were waiting until next week."
"I got impatient," he admits with a grin that makes him look boyish despite the silver in his hair. "Is that okay?"
"More than okay," I say, unable to contain my smile.
After he leaves, I take a moment to compose myself before my clients arrive. Moving in with Clive. It's happening so fast, but somehow not fast enough. For the first time in my life, I'm not overthinking, not trying to please everyone else. I'm simply following what feels right.