Riches and Romance (1001 Dark Nights)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

THE MASTERMIND

November 2021

Rivers Wilde,

Houston, Texas

Omar

“Today we are toasting to the end of an era.” My father lifts a sleek stemless champagne glass in a silent command to the two hundred and fifty people gathered in the large, chandelier lit ballroom. Like they’re obeying a maestro, everyone lifts their flutes in near perfect unison.

Everyone except for me. After a lifetime of bending to his will, the final straw has landed, and I’m done.

“But we’re also toasting the start of a new age—that The Balanced Scale Fund is proud to be the driving engine of. This Community Co-op is the country club reimagined as a space where all residents are welcome. The fees are minimal and on a sliding scale. And the amenities are state of the art and groundbreaking. This isn’t a dressed-up YMCA.” He gives a pointed look at the journalist who coined that phrase in an article he wrote right after we announced the project. The journalist, who is sitting at the front VIP table, has since changed his tune. Laughter ripples across the room at the roasting, and I begrudgingly acknowledge that my father is good at this.

“This is a place where you can play golf while your kids have soccer practice. Or take a class on coding or teach a class on budgeting. You can celebrate milestones here. Or just drop in for dinner when you don’t feel like cooking but want a meal in a space that feels like home.

“The vision to build a space that fosters leisure and productivity is the result of our collaboration with Wilde World and The Rivers Family Foundation.” He turns to face my table and smiles magnanimously at me. “But it is the brainchild of our board chairman and founder and my son, Omar. And today, he’s given us two reasons to celebrate. Just this morning he was conferred his Bachelor of Arts with Honors. Very proud of you, son.” He hoists his glass up, and the rest of the room joins him.

I accept the cheers, sip my drink, and smile despite the bitterness it leaves on my tongue.

When the cries of “speech, speech, speech,” ring out, I acquiesce and stand to meet my father’s eyes for the first time all afternoon. He’s smiling for the benefit of the onlookers, but his eyes tell a different story. And the anger in them is a mirror image of what I’ve been feeling.

He’s been my manager since I was scouted and has overseen every investment I’ve made over the years. In life and work, we’ve been perfectly in sync. Or so he thought, until this morning when he realized I’d broken his most sacred rule. And had been for years.

But it was my refusal to apologize when he commanded me to after our raging war of words that really got under his skin. The furrows of anger in his forehead are joined by grooves of worry on the side of his frowning mouth. The last thing he said to me before we walked into the room together in a false united front was, “Don’t even think about going off script today.”

His worry that I’m going to let our private argument spill into the public is in vain and insulting. My father, with his background in business operations, was instrumental in getting The Fund off the ground ten years ago. He runs the Fund with a mastery that’s earned us both a lot of money and clout. But it was my vision that launched The Balanced Scales Fund. After a decade of investing in brands built on image, I wanted to invest in ideas. This isn’t just a business to me, it’s a passion.

Which is why, at the age of 32, I put my old ass through three and a half years of college while working by day as the chairman of our board and the unofficial director of joint ventures.

I break our silent war of wills and reach into the inside pocket of my suit for the piece of paper containing the short statement my publicist drafted for tonight. I hate public speaking with every fiber of my being, and nerves make my stomach tight.

I scan the room and find the table where my three best friends—Graham, David, and Reece—are sitting with their partners. They’re my touchstones, and I’m so glad they’re here. Also at their table is my one-night stand turned good friend, Reena. My eyes linger on the empty seat next to her where my mother was supposed to be sitting, and my ire returns anew.

While I read the meaningful but somewhat shallow platitudes of hope and gratitude, I’m careful not to look in my father’s direction for fear that my anger will overpower my good sense.

I stand smiling until the polite applause dies down. When it’s over, the attendees move en masse to the room where dinner will be served. After a round of congratulations and a group selfie with my friends, I excuse myself to use the bathroom.

I catch a glimpse of my father and my agent, Dean, with their heads pressed together in deep conversation. He laughs, and I’m angry that he can manage to when I’m still seething.

Everyone else is too busy posting their videos and pictures on Instagram or TikTok to notice me walking away from the restrooms and toward the balcony that runs along the back of the ballroom. I loosen my tie the second I step outside and expel the resentment-tinged breath I’ve been holding all night into the cool night air.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, and my stomach clenches painfully at the number of missed calls from my mother.

I have her saved in my phone as “Marley” because Bob Marley is her favorite musician and because I knew my father would never get the reference.

I open my texts to write to her and see the message she sent this morning. It’s a picture of her dressed in a blue Chanel suit she bought specially for the day. The text reads “ Dressed to kill because I am so proud of my baby.”

I write back. “I’m sorry.” Because that’s all I feel besides guilt.

They call me the mastermind out on the pitch—I’m a strategic and nimble midfielder who can think three steps ahead in the middle of a match. But when it comes to just about everything else, including saying aloud what I’m feeling, I’m as agile and precise as a tractor.

I’m glad I didn’t witness the confrontation when she arrived at the graduation ceremony this morning and took her seat in the same row as the rest of my family. I can imagine it, though. Their fights when they were married were epic.

But they happened privately. Today must have been humiliating for her.

My stomach tries to push its way into my intestines, or at least that’s what it feels like. Anxiety is no joke. The physical ache that always accompanies mine is nothing new, but it’s been a long time since I’ve felt it.

“Fuck me.” I self soothe with a hand flat on my belly and close my eyes, this time focusing on the tickle of air on the edge of my nostril when I draw in a deep breath and exhale it out.

Houston’s taken some getting used to—the summers are extremely hot and humid. Being outside is something that only happens if I absolutely need to. But I love the city’s mild winters more than I hate the heat. It’s early December, but a warm evening.

I let my head fall back and relax in the spotless headspace that being alone and outside always gives me.

My parents got divorced when I was ten. My mother is an alcoholic, and my father got sole custody of us in the split. She would come to stay with us for one weekend a month, and my father would vacate the house. And for a couple of days each month, I was happy. Until the summer before I turned fourteen when everything changed and she disappeared.

My father sat us down to explain, and I cried as he told us that she’d left LA, and he didn’t know where she was. He consoled us by explaining that while she may be fun and loving on the weekends, she was selfish, weak, and unworthy of our forgiveness all of the time, and we were better off without her. He made us repeat and promise never to forget it.

I didn’t have any contact with her for fifteen years. Then, on the day after it was announced that I was a free agent again, she called my office and told my secretary she was my Aunt Mimosa, her sister, to get through to me.

She began by begging me not to hang up. I hadn’t even considered it. She went on to apologize for letting her addiction rule her life and apologized for almost letting it ruin mine.

I accepted her apology and gave her one of my own, which she refused to accept because she didn’t blame me for what happened that summer. She said she was only calling because she watched the news conference and could see the sadness in my eyes even though I’d done a good job of pretending to be optimistic and somewhat relieved while I was on air. She said she was living in Houston, had been sober for five years, had a job, and really wanted to see me.

She was the only person who noticed or cared enough to comment on how much I’d been struggling since the knee injury that had kept me off the pitch for a year already.

And the nearly hour-long conversation we had that day was the first one I’d had in a long time where no one was demanding that I tell them what was next.

I was a hobbled one-trick pony. And the empathy and understanding she offered was just what I needed.

I flew down to see her a few days later for a weekend that turned into a week. We spent time doing all the things we’d done when I was boy. Listening to music, bingeing Anime, cooking together, and catching up. She didn’t ask me for anything but a chance to get to know each other.

It was the most relaxed weekend I’d had in years.

On my last day, I felt comfortable enough to open up to her about how anxious I’d been about my uncertain future. At 30, I was older than most of my teammates in the LA Galaxy. But there were plenty of players older than me in the League who still played close to their peak levels of performance.

After six months of physical therapy and grueling workouts, I still found myself facing a limitation I couldn’t overcome with the sheer force of my will. And after multiple injuries and surgeries on the same knee, it was weak, and my peak was behind me.

She floated a suggestion no one else on my team or in my personal life had: Was it time to retire? I rejected that suggestion. Who was I if not a football player? Being a midfielder for Chelsea Football Club and then the LA Galaxy wasn’t a calling, but I was very good at it. I loved the rush of leading my team to victory and being at the top of my game. The money I made in my eight-figure contract with Chelsea has been put to very good use over the years, and I’ve built a brand with an impressive business portfolio that includes clothing lines, night clubs, restaurants, and part ownership of an MLS team.

Not that I knew anything about running my investment company, Pacific Partners. My role as chairman of the board was only held because I was the founder and the face of the brand.

I couldn’t spend my life being a paid spokesperson and letting other people run my business. What the fuck would I do all day if I didn’t have practice?

My mother listened to me pour all of my doubts out. Then she reminded me how much I’d loved school and that before I was drafted to the Premier League, I’d wanted to go to college and study economic development and marketing. She encouraged me to think about retiring before I was put out to pasture, pursue the degree I’d always wanted, and chart a new course for myself.

I liked what I’d seen of Houston. The slower, less celebrity-obsessed city was just the change of pace I needed. I applied to the University of Houston, and my father was actually glad I’d made the decision to pursue my degree. I didn’t feel the need to tell him my mother was here and that I saw her on a regular basis.

“Mr. Solomon,” a deep, baritone booms behind me. I want to be alone, but if it had to be somebody, I’m glad it’s Noah Royale. He puts out one of his large hands and shakes mine vigorously, letting it go with a snap of his fingers. It’s how he greets anyone he likes in lieu of hugs.

His father is the founder and head of a multi-billion-dollar business. Noah could have asked his father for the money to fund his project. Instead, he went out on his own—believing in it and wanting it to succeed or fail on its own merits. His was the very first business Balanced Scales funded.

“Eloise.” I lift my glass to his wife, who is draped onto his side. Their fingers are laced, arms twined. Her free arm is latched around his waist, and her head is on his shoulder. She’s got a look of complete bliss on her face, and he’s smiling the way he only does when he’s with her. They’re a unit, and they hashtag all their sickeningly in-love pictures and posts with #Noel. It’s a private account. Unlike his other siblings, he keeps a low profile and his relationship private.

“Look at you, doing mogul shit.” He grins and turns to give the terrace an appreciative appraisal. “It’s fucking great. And this neighborhood, I love it. I never thought I’d consider living outside the loop, but this is nice. Really smart move. ”

“Just trying to be like you.”

He laughs but shakes his head. “If that were true, you’d have been on at least one second date in the last year,” he jokes.

I wish I’d found any of the women I’ve been out with inspiring enough to want a second date.

“Why are you out here? You okay?” Eloise asks, her eyes concerned.

I smile and force myself to relax. “I just hate parties.”

They flash twin smiles of sympathy. “Us too. We love you, man, and we came to show our support, but there’s only so much socializing we can handle. Mind if we take off?”

“Only because I can’t go with you. My dad would never let me hear the end of it.”

He winces and groans. “Sorry, man. I was supposed to say as soon as I saw you that your dad is looking for you.”

“Shit.” I throw back the rest of my drink, and he pats me on the shoulder before they walk around the terrace toward the stairs. The last thing I want is a replay of our argument earlier.

When I decided to launch The Balanced Scale Fund in my third year at U of H, I used my personal funds as seed money. My father helped me organize and launch it. When it came time to find someone to administer it, I asked him to consider the position.

If he hadn’t spent his life managing my career, he would have been a very successful executive somewhere. There was no one I trusted more to take care of the money and execute my vision.

The rest of the board agreed, and I was grateful for his leadership. But when his first decision as the Fund’s managing partner was to relocate the headquarters of the Fund to Houston, I pushed back.

I didn’t want my two perfectly separate worlds to collide. When he presented the numbers to the entire board and everything from the cost of office space to the cost of human capital was so much cheaper than our headquarters in LA, I couldn’t continue to oppose the idea without appearing unreasonable and raising eyebrows. So I voted with the rest of the board in favor of the move.

My worry was in vain. My mother lives in North Houston, and my father bought a house a few blocks from mine in Rivers Wilde, which is in the southwest of the city’s fifty-mile sprawl.

It doesn’t take a lot of effort to keep him from knowing she is there. But I hate lying to my father. And I hate how isolated she is from the rest of the family. Her sister, our Aunt Mimosa, has effectively taken her place, and it’s like she doesn’t even exist to the rest of them. They have their reasons for doubting her. We all do. But if they could see how much she’s changed, they might change their minds.

Inviting her to my graduation ceremony this morning was a passive-aggressive confession. And boy, it did not go at all how I hoped.

“There you are.” This time, the voice behind me doesn’t put a smile on my face. My sister, Layel, is older than me by two years, and we’ve always been close. When I reconnected with our mother, I told her. She made it clear she had no interest in a reunion herself, but she kept my secret.

She missed the fireworks between my father and me, but I know exactly where she stands on issues concerning my mother. I’m sure she’s looking for me on his behalf, too.

I turn around with a frown in place, ready to preempt her. “I know, he’s—” I stop short and turn my frown into a smile because my nine-year-old niece is with her, and she only gets smiles from me. “Hey, Hannah.”

“Hey, Uncle ‘Mar.” She dashes ahead of her mom and hugs my waist. “Congratulations.” She grins up at me.

I pat her head. “Thank you, half pint.” I look up at my sister, and my expression cools. “I know Dad is looking for me, so save your breath.”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Instead of rolling her eyes like she normally does, she gives me a too-friendly smile that usually proceeds a big ask.

“What do you want?”

“To talk to you. I’ve decided that the kids and I should move to Houston to be with Dad.”

“Are you serious?” She swore she’d never leave Los Angeles, and when I left, said she’d be waiting for me when I finally came to my senses and moved back. “Why now?”

“I love it here. Ethan is starting high school, and Hannah’s about to start middle school, so hopefully it will be a natural transition for both of them.”

I nod. “Well, congrats. And it’ll be nice to have you here.” But I know she didn’t seek me out to tell me that. “So what do you need from me?”

She clears her throat and smooths a hand down the skirt of her dress. “I found the perfect house.” She grins.

“You did?” Hannah and I ask at the same time.

She beams and clasps her hands under her chin. “Yes, it’s right next door to yours.”

I frown. “I didn’t know it was for sale.”

“That’s the best part.” Her grin can’t be contained. “I met your neighbor when I went out for a walk, and she told me they were moving to California for her husband’s new job and were just about to put their house on the market. I asked if I could see it, and she let me. I made her an offer, and she called me just now to say they accept.”

“Wow,” I laugh in surprise and admiration. “You don’t waste time, do you? Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Yeah, I’m excited. It’s only a few blocks from Dad. And it’s perfect for us.”

“Did you at least get a good price?” I ask.

She grimaces. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. I need some help with it.”

“Sure, I know a good realtor.”

“No, I mean, I made a cash offer. But I don’t have the cash.”

I do a quick calculation in my head. The house next door is a tad smaller than mine, but I only bought mine three years ago, and housing prices haven’t risen much in that time.

“Once you sell the house in Calabasas, you’ll have more than enough to pay whatever they’re asking.”

She clears her throat and gives me a tentative smile. “About the house?—”

“What’s the kitchen like?” Hannah asks her mom.

“Just like Uncle Omar’s. Nice. Brand new.”

“What about the house, Layel?” I give her a pointed look.

She shrugs. “I don’t want to sell it. I was thinking I could rent it out and use the rent money to pay you back for the loan to buy the house next door.”

I purse my lips. “I see you worked it all out without me. I suppose you’ve got the check all filled out and just need me to sign, right?”

Hannah’s expression grows pained at the harsh tone, and I bite my tongue. I say a silent prayer for patience and remind myself that I created this monster.

Between my ten years of astronomical income when I played for Chelsea and eight years of smart investments and profitable business ventures, I’ve made enough money to last me several lifetimes. I’ve been supporting my family since I was a teenager, and I’ve always been proud that I can. I went straight to the pros and skipped college, not so I could drive a Bentley, but so my dad wouldn’t have to sweat another mortgage payment again. I’ve never been good at saying no to the people I love. Sometimes, though, Layel makes me wish I’d been less generous. She acts like money grows on evergreen trees.

After her divorce three years ago, she took the lump sum settlement she received and decided that the time was ripe for dipping her toe in the world of crypto currency.

She lost every penny she invested. But she was fine because the annuity I created for her gives her a very healthy monthly income for life. The house in Calabasas is hers, free and clear.

“I’ll give you a loan. Let’s talk about it after the party, though.”

I can afford to give her the money outright, and I feel a touch of guilt that I’m not. But as long as she thinks budgets are for other people, she’ll always need me to bail her out. And I don’t want Hannah and Ethan to think that’s how life works.

“There you all are,” my father calls from just inside the open terrace doors.

“Oh great,” I mutter under my breath.

“Poppa!” Hannah mobs him, and I use the distraction to brace myself for this conversation.

I’m 6’2, but I still have to tip my head back to look at my father. He’s a giant of a man, in more ways than one. But he’s never used his size to intimidate me. He didn’t need to. I’ve been in awe of him my whole life and respect him tremendously. But right now, he’s the last person I want to see.

“Girls, excuse us, please. Omar and I need to talk alone.” The please is only because he’s unerringly polite, but it’s not a request, and they know it. We say our goodbyes, and they hurry back inside.

As soon as the door closes behind them, his expression hardens. “How long have you been seeing her?”

He picks up the conversation exactly where we left it when I climbed out of the car at the Club’s valet.

“Since I left the Galaxy.”

His mouth falls open, his wide stare incredulous. “You’ve been in touch with her for four years?”

I nod. “Uh-huh.”

His eyes narrow, and his nostrils flair, the same way mine do when I’m angry. “And you were going to what? Surprise me?”

“It had nothing to do with you. Sure, I hoped you’d live and let live. But I wanted her here because she was the catalyst for it all.”

“ She was the catalyst for your graduation?” His eyes bulge. “After everything I’ve done— she is the catalyst?”

“She encouraged me to go back in the first place. And before you ask, she hasn’t asked me for a single penny. All she wants is to be in my life. And you had her removed from my graduation ceremony like she was a criminal.”

“She is a criminal. And I didn’t have her removed. I offered her money to leave, and she took it because that’s all she’s interested in. Like I’ve always said.”

I shake my head in a vehement rebuke. “I don’t believe you. She’s never asked me for anything. Not once in the four years I’ve been?—”

“Because I’ve been sending her money every month. And all it took was the threat of that ending for her to turn tail and abandon you. Again,” he shouts.

“You’ve been sending her money?” My stomach clenches, and my lungs constrict. “How? I thought you didn’t know where she was.”

He closes his eyes briefly and lets out a sharp breath. “Look, son. I’m sorry. I did what was best at the time. I would do it again. I just wish she’d stuck to her end of our deal.”

The implication of his words hits me square in the chest. Disoriented, I take a reflexive step away from him. “You knew where she was all these years?”

He doesn’t flinch or look away. “Yes. I did. Of course, I did. It was the only way to keep you safe.”

My heart feels like it’s twisting around itself. “How could you look us in the eye and say she didn’t want us to find her? To make us think she didn’t want anything to do with us?”

“She didn’t, son. I don’t know what prompted her to get in touch with you. But all it took was the threat of ending my support to make her leave you again. I’m sorry you’ve had to find out this way. But I warned you. She’s only interested in what you can do for her.”

If his goal had been to wound me, he hit a bullseye with that poison-tipped revelation. His self-satisfied, pitying expression doesn’t hold a hint of remorse, and that hurts nearly as much as his words do.

Years of pent-up resentment and frustration bubble to the surface, and all I want is to wipe that smug expression off his face.

I cross my arms over my chest and curl my lip in a disdainful sneer. “So she’s just like the rest of my family, then.”

He pales and then reddens. He leans toward me, his eyes slits of fury, his chin quivering. “ What did you say?”

I’ve crossed a line, but I’m too angry to care. “I started paying your bills before I was old enough to vote, and you have never asked me how I feel about having to make every single decision with you all in mind because you’re completely dependent on me.” I stab the air with my finger, gesturing between us.

“Dependent?” His temper, which burns as hot as mine, snaps. His voice is nearly a snarl, and he points an accusing finger at me. “I have been your backbone when you couldn’t stand. Your knees when you couldn’t figure out how to bend. Your fucking brain when you didn’t know what to do.” He slaps his broad chest. “And I’m dependent?”

I scoff. “How do you make a living, Dad?”

He rears back like I slapped him. “You think I wouldn’t trade that money for your respect? If I’d known you felt this way, I would have quit a long time ago.”

“Well, now you know. Quit,” I challenge with my eyes narrowed.

Instead of the hurt I was trying to inflict, his expression fills with a dark malice I knew he was capable of but have never seen directed at me. “You run around taking pictures, fighting with idiots, and dating one woman after the other. You would have been broke and a punchline years ago if it wasn’t for me. I wish I could walk away, but no one else would be willing to clean up your messes. You owe me an apology.”

“You lied to me for years. And now you want an apology? I’ll starve before I ever apologize to you.”

The phone in my hand rings, and Marley flashes on the screen. I hesitate for a beat before I answer, ready to give her a piece of my mind. I turn my back to my father and answer. “Mom?”

“Hello? I’m trying to reach next of kin for Matilda Solomon,” a male voice responds.

“Who is this?” I demand.

“I’m sorry. I’m an attending physician at Ben Taub hospital. Ms. Solomon was brought here by ambulance after a multi car accident this afternoon. Her phone has you listed as her emergency contact. Are you a family member?”

“I’m her son,” I say, but dread has lodged itself in my throat, and it’s barely audible.

“Sir, can you speak up?”

I clear my throat. “I’m her son. Is she okay?”

“She’s in surgery, but her condition is critical. I’m sorry to ask you this over the phone, but time is of the essence. Do you know if she has an advance directive or a do not resuscitate on file somewhere?”

My ears start ringing. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s okay.” He sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself. “The team will do their best. In the meantime, it would help if you were here so we can make decisions about next steps quickly. Are you local?”

“Yes. She’s going to be okay, right?”

“I’m sorry to say her prognosis isn’t good. She’s got multiple fractures and internal bleeding. It would be best if you got here as quickly as possible.”

I close my eyes and grab the railing of the balcony for support.

“Omar, what’s going on?” my father demands from behind me. He doesn’t sound angry anymore, but my blood is rushing so loudly in my ears I can’t hear him well.

“Sir?” the doctor presses.

“I’m on my way.”

“Son, what is happening?”

“She’s been in an accident. She’s at Ben Taub in surgery. I have to go.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

“You just try to stop me.”

I don’t have time to argue as I rush down the steps and give the valet attendant my claim card. My father is right behind me, and when the car pulls up, he climbs into the passenger’s seat without a word. I don’t say a word either, even though there are plenty on the tip of my tongue.

I focus on getting there as fast as I can. But it’s not fast enough.

On the way home, I let loose the words I held back earlier. Words I can’t take back. Words my father hurls back at me. We are broken, and nothing will ever be the same again.