22. Clive
Clive
I wake before dawn, sunlight not yet bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my bedroom. My bedroom. After decades of living in spaces that never quite felt like mine, the thought still gives me a thrill of possession. The penthouse has always been too large and empty, but not anymore.
Becca sleeps beside me, her dark hair splayed across the pillow, one slender arm thrown over my chest. She's been living here officially for three weeks now, though, in truth, she'd been spending most nights here for months before the movers came. I watch the slow rise and fall of her breathing, memorizing the curve of her shoulder and the soft part of her lips.
I never expected this. At forty-six, I resigned to a life of work and occasional companionship. After Kay, I'd had no interest in commitment. Then Becca walked into my office for that charity gala meeting, all professional efficiency and hidden fire, and everything changed.
Carefully, I extricate myself from her embrace, kissing her forehead when she stirs. She mumbles something unintelligible and burrows deeper into the pillows, lifting her blanket to allow Mr. Darcy to settle beside her. I pad to the kitchen, starting the coffee maker—the fancy Italian one Becca insisted was worth the astronomical price tag. She was right, of course. She usually is.
While the coffee brews, I check my phone. Three missed calls from Jack, all after midnight. I delete the notifications without listening to the voicemails. Whatever drunken tirade he unleashed can wait. Today is too important.
By the time Becca emerges from the bedroom, I've laid out breakfast on the terrace—fresh fruit, croissants from the bakery she loves on 73rd Street, and coffee in the blue ceramic mugs she brought from her apartment.
"Morning," she says, her voice still husky from sleep. She's wearing one of my dress shirts, the hem hitting mid-thigh. Her hair is tousled, her face bare of makeup, and she's never looked more beautiful.
"Good morning," I reply, pulling out her chair. "Sleep well?"
She smiles, reaching for the coffee. "Like the dead. Your mattress is still criminally comfortable."
"Our mattress," I correct gently. "Our home."
Her eyes soften. "Our home. I like the sound of that."
"So do I." I take her hand across the table. "Which is why I've been thinking?—"
My phone buzzes insistently. Jack's name appears on the screen for the fourth time in eight hours.
"You should probably take that," Becca says, though her expression says otherwise. "He'll just keep calling."
I sigh, standing up. "Enjoy your breakfast. I'll deal with this."
Inside, I answer with a curt, "Jack. It's six-thirty in the morning."
"We need to talk," he slurs. Still drunk from last night, then. "About Becca."
"There's nothing to discuss about Becca," I say, keeping my voice low as I move further into the penthouse, away from the terrace. The marble floor is cool beneath my bare feet.
"She was mine," Jack hisses through the phone. "You stole her."
I clench my jaw, watching the city come alive through the windows. "Becca doesn't belong to anyone, Jack. She made her choice."
"After you manipulated her," he spits. "My own stepfather is fucking my ex."
The crude language makes my blood boil, but I maintain my composure. "I'll be in the office at eight. If you want to have a conversation like adults, meet me there. Sober."
I hang up before he can respond, sliding the phone into my robe pocket. When I return to the terrace, Becca sips her coffee, the morning light gilding down her profile. She looks up, concern etched in her features.
"Everything okay?"
"It will be," I say, sitting back down. "I'm meeting Jack at the office this morning."
She sets down her mug. "Do you want me to come with you?"
"No." I reach for her hand, running my thumb over her knuckles. "This is between Jack and me. It's time we settled things."
"He's not going to just accept this, Clive." She gestures between us. "Us."
"I don't need him to accept it. I just need him to respect it." I bring her hand to my lips. "And to respect you."
After breakfast, I dress carefully in my best charcoal suit—armor for the confrontation ahead. Becca straightens my tie, rising on tiptoes to kiss me.
"Be gentle with him," she says. "He's hurting."
That's Becca—always seeing the best in people, even those who don't deserve it. It's one of the countless reasons I love her.
"I'll try," I promise, though we both know Jack deserves none of my restraint.
When I arrive, the office is quiet, and most of the staff is not due for another hour. I settle behind my desk, reviewing the files my security team compiled—financial records, emails, and text messages—evidence of Jack's betrayal not just of the company but of Becca, too.
He arrives at 8:15, disheveled but semi-sober, his usual arrogance dimmed by bloodshot eyes.
"Close the door," I tell him.
He does, then drops into the chair across from me. "Let's get this over with. How much?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"How much will you pay me to walk away from Becca? To keep quiet about everything?" He leans forward, a smirk playing on his lips. "If you want me to stay away, you’ll need to give me enough for a comfortable life."
I open the folder on my desk, turning it toward him. I watch his face as he realizes what he's looking at.
"What is this?" His voice wavers, the smirk faltering.
"This is why you're not getting a dime from me, Jack." I keep my voice level and professional. "Deposits to your personal account that match unauthorized withdrawals from accounts you oversaw. Confidential client information sold to competitors. And my personal favorite—" I tap a printed email exchange "—is your attempt to sabotage the Leland merger because you were angry that someone else closed it."
His face pales. "That's bullshit. You can't prove?—"
"I can prove all of it. I've been watching you for longer than you think." I lean back in my chair, studying him. The boy who grew up in my home, who I tried to mentor despite his resistance. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice half a million dollars missing from the development fund?"
"That was a loan," he sputters. "I was going to pay it back."
"With what? The money you were planning to extort from me today?" I close the folder. "I'm not offering you money, Jack. I'm offering you a choice."
He shifts in his seat, eyes darting around my office like a cornered animal. "What kind of choice?"
"Option one: I press charges. Wire fraud, corporate espionage, embezzlement. You'll do time." I hold up a hand when he tries to interrupt. "Option two: You stay away from Becca. Permanently."
"You can't keep me away from her," he sneers, though there's fear behind his bravado. "She'll see through you eventually. The old man playing sugar daddy."
I feel a flash of anger but suppress it. "Becca knows exactly who I am, Jack. Just as she finally saw who you are. A man who cheated on her, belittled her, and tried to sabotage her career when she wouldn't bend to your will."
His eyes widen. "You told Becaa about?—"
"She knows everything. I don't keep secrets from her." I stand, buttoning my suit jacket. "Your choice, Jack. Prison or a clean break. Either way, you're done here."
He stands, too, knocking the chair backward. “You won’t get away with this.”
"Yes, I will." I walk to the door and open it. "Security will escort you to clean out your desk. The paperwork will be waiting."
After he's gone, I sink back into my chair, tension draining from my shoulders. It went better than expected. I was prepared for violence, for a scene, but in the end, Jack's self-preservation won out. He'll take option two because he always chooses the easy way.
My phone buzzes with a text from Becca:
Everything okay?
I smile, typing back
Yes. He's gone. It's over.
I set the phone down and walk to the window, watching the morning light glint off skyscrapers. Jack will be a problem for a while—wounded pride always is—but he'll eventually move on, probably to some other wealthy patron who'll indulge him until they see through the charm to the emptiness beneath.
My phone rings again. Becca.
"That was fast," I answer, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
"What happened?" she asks, her voice a mix of concern and relief. "Did Jack make a scene?"
"No scene. Jack thought I'd pay him off."
Her soft gasp tells me everything about how little she truly knew him. "He tried to blackmail you?"
"Something like that." I don't tell her about the threats, the crude comments. Some things are better left unsaid. "He's clearing out his desk now."
"Are you okay?" Always thinking of others, my Becca.
"I'm better than okay." I turn from the window and sit on the edge of my desk. "I was thinking we should have dinner tonight. Somewhere nice. Public."
The pause on her end makes my heart skip.
"Are you sure?" she finally asks. "People will talk."
"Let them. I'm tired of hiding, Becca. I'm not ashamed of us."
"I'm not either, but?—"
"But nothing. Unless you're not ready?"
Another pause, shorter this time. "No, I'm ready. Where should we go?"
"Le Bernardin. Eight o'clock. I'll have flowers sent to the penthouse."
Her laugh warms me from the inside out. "You don't need to send flowers every time we go out, Clive."
"I like sending you flowers." I don't say I enjoy making up for all the times Jack didn't. He forgot all the birthdays and anniversaries, and he dismissed the promotions.
"I should go. I have that Hudson wedding consultation in an hour."
"Go dazzle them with your brilliance. I'll see you tonight."
After we hang up, I call my assistant to make the reservation. Within minutes, my calendar updates with the dinner plans, and I know she's already arranging for the car service and notifying the restaurant of my wine preferences.
I spend the morning in meetings, fielding questions about Jack's abrupt departure with practiced vagueness. "Personal reasons" and "mutual decision" become my mantras. By lunch, the office gossip has moved on to speculation about the Westbridge acquisition.
At three, I get a call from Kay. I consider ignoring it but finally answer on the fourth ring.
"You threatened my son." Her voice is ice-cold, and the Bronx accent she usually hides slips through in her anger.
"I gave him choices," I say smoothly. "After certain financial irregularities came to light."
"Bullshit," Kay hisses. "You're punishing him because of Becca."
I lean back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I'm holding Jack accountable for stealing from my company. The fact that he also treated Becca terribly is just an unfortunate character flaw in a long list of them."
"He said you're threatening to press charges. Over what? A few accounting errors?"
I almost laugh. "Half a million dollars isn't an accounting error, Kay. It's theft."
"He would never?—"
"He did. I have proof. If you'd like to see it, I'm happy to have my lawyers show you the documentation."
The line goes quiet for a moment. Despite everything, I feel a twinge of sympathy. No matter how manipulative Kay can be, she loves her son. It's her only redeeming quality.
"What do you want?" she asks, her voice smaller.
"I want Jack to leave Becca alone. Permanently. No drunk calls, no showing up at her office, no manipulating mutual friends to get to her."
"And if he does that, you'll drop everything?"
"If he stays away from Becca and returns the money, yes."
Kay sighs, the sound weary and defeated. "You're really in love with her, aren't you?"
The question catches me off guard. Kay and I rarely discussed emotions during our marriage. It was all status and appearances, never feelings.
"Yes," I say simply. "I am."
"She's half your age, Clive."
"Eighteen years isn't half, and I'm well aware of our age difference." I stand, moving to the window. "Is that all, Kay?"
"I'll talk to Jack," she says after a pause. "Make him understand."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you." Her voice hardens again. "I'm protecting my son from your vendetta."
The call ends, and I set my phone down, exhaling slowly. Kay will never see Jack clearly. To her, he'll always be the boy who needs protection, never the man who creates his problems.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of meetings and calls. At six, I head home to change for dinner. The penthouse is quiet when I arrive, but evidence of Becca is everywhere – her laptop on the coffee table, a half-empty tea mug beside it, and her running shoes by the door. These small signs of her presence fill the space that once felt so empty.
I shower and dress in a fresh suit, checking my watch. Becca should be home soon. Right on cue, I hear the front door open.
"Clive?" Her voice calls out.
"In the bedroom," I answer, adjusting my cufflinks.
She appears in the doorway, still in her work clothes—a navy pencil skirt and cream blouse—with her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Even after a full day of work, she looks radiant.
"Those flowers are absolutely ridiculous," she says, but her smile betrays her pleasure. "The doorman had to help me carry them up."
I cross the room to kiss her, breathing in the light floral scent of her perfume. "Too much?"
"Always too much," she murmurs against my lips. "But I love them anyway."
She steps back, eyeing my suit appreciatively. "You look handsome. Give me fifteen minutes to get ready?"
"Take all the time you need. Our reservation isn't until eight."
While Becca showers, I pour myself a scotch and step out onto the terrace. I feel a profound sense of contentment—not just the satisfaction of business success but a deeper fulfillment.
Becca emerges forty minutes later in a deep burgundy dress that hugs her curves.
"Worth the wait," I say, setting down my glass. "You look stunning."
She blushes, still unused to compliments after years of Jack's casual cruelty. "Thank you. Ready to scandalize New York society?"
"More than ready." I offer my arm. "Let them talk."
In the elevator, Becca fidgets with her clutch. "Did Kay call you? After Jack left?"
I consider lying, then think better of it. "Kay did."
"And?"
"And she's upset, as expected. She'll get over it." I squeeze her hand. "Don't worry about Kay or Jack tonight. This is about us."
The restaurant welcomes us with quiet elegance. Heads turn as we're led to our table, whispers following in our wake. I place my hand on the small of Becca's back, a deliberate gesture of possession and pride.
"Mr. Bishop," the ma?tre d' greets us. "Your usual table."
I pull out Becca's chair, noting the slight tremble in her hands as she sits. Under the table, I place my hand on her knee reassuringly.
"Everyone's staring," she whispers, unfolding her napkin.
"Let them." I scan the room, meeting the curious gazes directly until they look away. "They're just jealous."
She laughs softly. "Of me, maybe. Dating New York's most eligible bachelor."
"Former bachelor," I correct, reaching across the table to take her hand. "And they should be jealous of me. I'm the one having dinner with the most beautiful woman in the room."
Her eyes shine with emotion. "Clive..."
"I love you, Becca," I say, the words coming easily now after months of holding them back. "I should have told you sooner, but I wanted to be sure we were ready for this. For everything that comes with it."
"I love you too," she says, squeezing my hand. Her eyes glisten in the candlelight. "I think I have for a long time, even when I shouldn't have."
The waiter approaches with the champagne I pre-ordered, pouring two flutes with practiced precision. When he retreats, I raise my glass.
"To new beginnings," I say.
She clinks her glass against mine. "To us."
As we sip, I notice two society matrons at a nearby table whispering behind their menus, eyes darting our way. Becca follows my gaze and tenses slightly.
"That's Margot Whitley," she murmurs. "She's on three charity boards with Kay."
"Let her report back," I say, setting down my glass. "I'm not hiding you like some shameful secret."
Dinner proceeds with exquisite food and easy conversation. Becca tells me about the Hudson wedding—apparently, the bride wants doves released indoors—and I share the less classified details of the Westbridge acquisition. It feels normal and comfortable as if we've been doing this for years instead of having our first public outing.
By dessert, the initial wave of stares has subsided. Becca relaxes visibly, laughing as she steals a bite of my chocolate soufflé.
"This is nice," she says. "Being out together. Not worrying about who might see us."
"It's how it should be." I catch her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "I want everyone to know you're with me."
Her cheeks flush beautifully. "Even if it complicates things?"
"Especially then," I lean forward. Becca, I've spent most of my life making the safe choice—the practical business decision. With you, I'm choosing happiness, complications, and all."
Her smile could light the entire restaurant. "When did you become such a romantic?"
"When I met you." I signal for the check. "Now, shall we give them something else to talk about?"
Her eyebrow arches. "What did you have in mind?"
"A walk through Central Park? Very scandalous."
She laughs, the sound drawing more curious glances. "You're ridiculous."
"Only about you."
Outside, the May evening is warm with a gentle breeze. I dismiss my driver, and we stroll toward the park, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. Streetlights cast a golden glow on the path as we enter 59th Street.
"I feel like I should be nervous," Becca says as we walk. "About the gossip, Jack's reaction, everything changing so fast. But I'm not."
"No?"
She shakes her head, dark hair catching the light. "I'm certain about us."
I stop walking, turn to face Becca, and cup her face in my hands, struck again by how perfectly she fits against me despite our height difference.
"I've never been more certain of anything," I tell her. "Or anyone."
When I kiss her, I don't care who sees. Let the whole city witness it. Let Jack hear about it from every mutual acquaintance. Let Kay's society friends report back with scandalized whispers. None of it matters.
Becca pulls back slightly, her brown eyes searching mine. "What happens now?"
"Now we live our lives. Together. No more hiding." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "And I deal with whatever tantrum Jack throws next."
She frowns slightly. "You never told me exactly what happened this morning."
We continue walking, my arm around her waist. At this hour, the park is peaceful, the city's chaos muted by trees and distance.
"He thought I'd pay him to go away," I say finally. "When that didn't work, he tried threatening me."
"With what?" Her voice is small, concerned.
"Nothing he can follow through on." I press a kiss to her temple. "I have evidence of his... financial indiscretions at the company. Enough to press charges if I wanted to."
She stops walking abruptly. "You're blackmailing Jack?"
"I prefer to think of it as leverage." I turn to face her fully. "Becca, he stole from my company. He betrayed my trust. And he hurt you, repeatedly, for years." My voice hardens on the last words. "I'm not sorry for holding him accountable."
She studies my face, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she nods. "I understand. Just... don't do anything you'll regret. Not for me."
"Everything I do is for you now," I admit. "But I promise not to cross any lines you wouldn't be comfortable with."
Her smile returns, softening her features. "That's all I ask."
We continue our walk, talking about lighter things—the summer charity gala she's planning and the weekend trip to the Hamptons we're considering. By the time we circle back toward Fifth Avenue, it's nearly eleven.
"Any regrets?"
"Of course not," she reminds me with a laugh.
"Just checking." I signal for a taxi. "Making sure you're not having second thoughts after our public debut."
She leans into me as a cab pulls up. "No second thoughts. I am right where I belong.”
“We both are, my love. We both are.”