12. Pasha
12
I consider myself as a reasonable man.
But I am all out of options for this motherfucker.
TODD: We are running a business
TODD: We need people we can depend on
TODD: People who are accountable and don’t just leave at the drop of a hat
I have to take a break from scrolling through the messages before I snap the phone in half. Why didn’t she tell me? Come to me?
TODD: Answer your phone
TODD: We need to discuss your future at this company
Gritting my teeth, I grab my own phone and dial a number I’ve been holding off calling until now.
“Mr. Chekhov, lovely to hear from you!”
“Aubrey.” I slump back against the couch cushions and bid farewell to my nap. “Everything go through okay with the filings?”
Aubrey’s professional smile is audible through the phone. “Easy as pie. The check was cashed four days ago, so it looks like they got everything they need.”
“And that’s all they’ll be getting from anyone, moving forward.”
That smile widens. She’s a shark who smells blood in the water, and that’s exactly why I brought her on for this job. “Am I hearing what I think I’m hearing?”
“You are. Effective immediately, Todd and Keith Bloom are no longer welcome inside those doors. Send security to escort them out. With force, if necessary. Even if it’s not, a boot in the ass might be called for.”
Daphne stirs. Her brow furrows as she blinks at me, no doubt alerted by the names of her now former employers.
“I’ll have a team escort them to their cars,” Aubrey confirms, “and then a second team can go in and clear out their personal effects.”
“Perfect. Hazel should be there, so enlist her help in divvying everything up if you need it.”
“Will do.”
When I hang up, I look to Daphne. “What are you talking about?” she croaks, her voice thick with sleep. “What’s going on with Todd and Keith?”
I choose my words carefully. This is meant to be a gift—hell, it’s a fucking liberation—but I know she’s still riding the coattails of some pretty powerful hormones and painkillers. “Todd and Keith are no longer your employers. Nor are they the owners of the gallery.”
“What?” She sits straight up. “I lost my job?”
“In a manner of—” I cut myself off when I see the tears glisten in the corners of her eyes. Shit. “Wait here. I need to grab something for you. Be right back.”
The folder I need is easy to find. It’s been resting in the top drawer of my desk for several months. I was saving it for a much better, happier occasion, but now seems as good a time as any to give it to her.
When I return, she’s sitting on the couch with the blanket wrapped around her, watching Taty sleep. I sit down next to her and hand her the file. “I was saving this as a wedding gift, but… go ahead. Take a look.”
Daphne opens the file. Skims the first page. Then gasps and snaps it shut, looking at me in shock. “No.”
“Yeah.”
“What…” She swallows hard and looks at the paperwork again. “What did you do?”
She does not seem as thrilled as I anticipated. “I kept my word. I found you a better job that pays better than them, and treats you far better than they do. I just didn’t mention it would be their jobs.”
“You own the gallery.”
“Actually, I don’t.” I flip the top page over and point to a very particular section of the sales contract. “You do.”
Daphne hiccups and covers her mouth. The hand holding the file trembles.
“The woman I was just speaking with, Aubrey Day, has been managing the premises and overseeing the sales transactions while you and I are away.” I search her face for any sign of elation. Any joy. Anything at all. “But this is yours. Anything you want to do—I might suggest changing the name from Bloom Brothers to something else for starters—that’s yours to decide.”
“What about Keith and Todd?”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. “They’ve made it very clear that they cannot be trusted to manage the gallery in an ethical and dependable manner, so they're out.”
“Out. As in…”
“Seeking alternative employment. Preferably in an alternative hemisphere. All things considered, it’s a mercy I’m letting them live long enough to do that.”
She stares at the folder. Her expression is unreadable, and that’s almost more unsettling than her anger. Or her sadness.
Between the two, I think I’d prefer her anger.
Unfortunately, it seems like I’ve only earned her sadness. She blinks up at me, and two fat tears roll down her cheeks that she wipes away.
I don’t understand. “What’s wrong?”
Daphne furiously shakes her head, jumps to her feet, and leaves the living room without a word. I give Taty a glance to make sure she’s still asleep, then rush after her mother.
I find her in the hallway, still within view of the bassinet but far enough away that we don’t have to whisper as much. She shoves the folder against my chest. “I don’t want it. Take it back.”
“I can’t do that, Daphne. All sales are final.”
“Then let this Aubrey person have it.”
“It’s a gift. For you.”
Again, she shakes her head. She won’t look up at me. “No. I don’t—I can’t be bought.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This. Buying me a company? A whole company? This is…” When she turns her face to try and hide the tears, I can see the sadness etched in her face. She’s nothing close to happy or relieved or grateful.
She’s fucking devastated.
And I’m fucking confused.
“I’m not interested in your money,” she snaps through her tears. “Frankly, I don’t care about anyone’s money. That’s not what I want.”
“So what do you want?”
“You.”
I suck in a breath. My heart slams inside my ribcage, and I feel my tongue thicken against the roof of my mouth. I don’t know why I’m so responsive, other than that it’s been hell in a handbasket just trying to avoid physical temptation.
Now, there’s this. Us. Something deeper.
Daphne sighs and wraps her arms around herself. “I just wanted you. Always did.”
That joy crashes straight into the ground.
Past tense? Want-ed?
Shit.
Time to reroute. Things are tense, things are raw, but like hell am I letting her go.
Like hell am I letting her give up on me. Give up on us.
I reach for her and, to my relief, she doesn’t shy back. When I pull her close and cup her face in my hand, she doesn’t dismiss me or try to pull away. Progress.
“You have me. I’m right here.”
Daphne tries to not look frustrated. “I mean?—”
“I know what you mean. Where did you think I’d gone?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Hey. Look at me.” I tip her face up so she has to look me in the eyes. “I promised I’d take care of you. That I’d be here beside you for everything. That includes making sure you’re in a position of respect and independence in your professional life, when and if I can do something about it. In this case, I could do something, so I did.”
Disbelief wars with the sadness. Even more, it battles the hope I see flickering in the depths of her eyes.
“You deserve better, Daphne. So much better than anyone has ever given you. Let me do that for you. I want to give you better.” I see something flicker in her gaze. I’m going to stamp out those thoughts right away. “No, this is not because you just gave birth. I planned to buy the gallery months ago.”
Her gaze snaps to mine with new focus. “What? Why?”
I tuck her in closer to me. “Because, aside from being egotistical, misogynistic assholes, they’re fucking terrible at what they try to do.”
Daphne’s giggle bubbles up. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“With pleasure.” I start counting off my fingers one by one. “They don’t know the first thing about what ‘avant garde’ actually means. They haven’t featured an actual, respected artist in years. They are so blinded by greed that they can’t identify their primary colors. Quite frankly, getting rid of them and making you the new owner of the gallery is doing the art world a favor.”
A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Damn. That’s harsh.”
“No, it’s the truth.” I bury my nose in her hair to breathe her in for a moment. As much as I’m determined to give her peace, to be her anchor in the storm, she does the same for me. She’s usually unaware of it. “Listen: do whatever you want with the gallery. Run it, sell it, feed it to wolves—I don’t fucking care. As long as it makes you happy.”
Daphne sighs. In a subconscious show of trust, she leans into me. I rub her back and drink in the moment of finally seeing some of her walls start to crumble.
Or maybe just crack a little. Either way—progress.
“I really love working there.” She groans it into my chest. “I just hate handouts. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, I just…”
“You’re not used to receiving gifts without strings attached.”
“Exactly.” She sniffles. “How fucked up is that?”
“Massively.” When she looks up at me, I shrug. “The Hamishes are fucked-up people. They raised you how they raised you—and yet here you are. With a big decision to make.” I hold the folder up for both of us to look at. “You can sell this and rake in your own profit, invest elsewhere, whatever you want. Or…”
“Or…?”
“Or you can take everyone’s opinion on how you should live your life and shove it up their asses. Win to spite them. Make them grovel at your feet by doing what you do.”
“Is that what you do?”
“More or less. Just with a lot more blood involved.” I hand her the folder. “Either way, it will be the life you chose. Even I can’t pick for you.”
Daphne accepts the folder and stares at it for a long, silent moment. She still seems uncertain of herself, but the tears have dried and she manages to give me the tiniest of smiles.
I’ll take it. Just like how I know she’ll take the gallery.
Not just because it’s her passion and her life’s work. But because deep down, underneath her sorrows and her stresses, she’s a woman made of fire.
And she’s ready to watch the world burn.