Chapter 28 Jeremy
JEREMY
My house in Atherton, California, the heart of Silicon Valley, has fourteen-foot ceilings, a floating staircase made of poured concrete, and enough Carrara marble to tile a small cathedral.
I commissioned an architect responsible for designs on three Architectural Digest covers.
And when the magazine finally came calling, I wore a douchey (in retrospect) cashmere sweater and leaned against the massive kitchen island with a nonchalance that took forty-five minutes and a stylist to achieve.
That was four years ago. The issue sits framed in the lower-level hallway between the gym I use regularly and a screening room I’ve stepped foot in twice.
I’m standing in the living room, if you can call it that.
Living implies someone actually occupies the space.
But this isn’t my home. Not anymore. The windows stretch floor to ceiling, flooding the room with light that bounces off every polished surface and gives off upscale dental office vibes.
It’s triple the square footage of my house in Skylark, and I couldn’t tell you the last time anyone was here, other than me and the people I pay for its upkeep.
I built this house to prove I was a top dog in one of the wealthiest zip codes in the country. The final word in an argument nobody else was having.
Turns out, the final word echoes when there’s no one around to hear it.
My phone buzzes with a text from Sloane.
A selfie of her, Piper, and Avah at The Sugar Shack.
Sloane and Piper grin wildly at the camera.
Avah’s smile looks almost reluctant as she holds up a cupcake with a frosting star on top in one hand and flips the camera the bird with the other.
One eyebrow is raised in that half challenge, half invitation way she has.
Sloane: good at cupcakes, bad at selfies. I know you miss her (and me).
I’m a grown man standing alone in a twelve-million-dollar monument to my own ego, so I don’t smile.
I totally smile.
I’m still looking at the photo when the ding of the mudroom door sensor announces Raina before she rounds the corner.
Even though I’ve invited her multiple times to come in through the front, my assistant insists on using what she calls the service entrance.
I don’t argue too hard, because she’s been both my right and left hands for the past six years, so I’m not going to take a chance on pissing her off.
At this point, she’s probably forgotten more about my life than I remember.
As always, her dark hair is pulled back, hazel eyes assessing me the same way she scrutinizes a quarterly report.
“I want to sell this house,” I say as a greeting.
“We need to talk about Avah Harris,” she says at the same time.
We stare at each other across the marble island.
“What do you know about Avah?” I pocket my phone like she caught me watching porn, the digital equivalent of hiding a love letter behind my back.
“Why do you want to sell this house?” she counters, her gaze tracking the gesture.
At one time, I loved what this house represented, although never the house itself. But somewhere between snorkeling in paradise and making love on a sagging camp mattress, those bullshit optics stopped meaning anything.
“If things go well with NorthStar, I’d like to make Colorado my home base.
” I keep my voice boardroom neutral, the tone I use when I don’t want anyone to know I care about the outcome.
“I’ll find a small place out here.” I glance at the fourteen-foot ceilings and the designer furniture that no human spine could comfortably rest against. “Something cozy.”
Raina’s brows go sky high. Have I ever uttered the word cozy? Doubtful.
“Avah Harris,” she repeats like I’ve answered a question she no longer needs to ask.
“Why are you saying her name like she’s a communicable disease?”
“I didn’t say she’s a disease.”
“Your face is doing the talking.” I lean against the island and cross my arms. “She’s a close friend of my sister’s and has been helping me with the Johnsons. They like her.” I hold Raina’s gaze. “I like her. There’s nothing more we need to discuss.”
She purses her lips and lets the silence stretch between us. Raina’s ability to weaponize silence is legendary. I’ve watched it work on venture capitalists, board chairs, and one particularly arrogant senator. I can hold out longer than most, but I’m not immune.
“Say what you need to say.” Awesome. I’m spouting off cloying John Mayer lyrics. This is going south fast.
“Has she told you about her father?” Raina asks.
I spread my hands on the counter and notice the cool marble underneath my palms in the same way my aging father’s knee registers a shift in barometric pressure—deep in my bones.
“He’s not someone she wants in her life.” It’s true, as far as it goes. Avah mentioned her dad in generalities, like recounting the childhood bully you survived but don’t want to relive. She told me just enough that I understand the wound without seeing the scar.
“Robert Ramsey,” Raina says. “Avah and her mother appear to have changed their last names at some point. Convicted of wire fraud and conspiracy to commit mail fraud for running a structured settlement scheme that targeted the elderly. He bought their life insurance policies at steep discounts, forged documentation to accelerate payouts, and pocketed the difference. Spent fifteen years in a low-security federal facility in Connecticut. He’s out now. ”
The clinical delivery is so Raina that under different circumstances, I’d be impressed. Right now, I’m trying to reconcile the woman who threw a spatula at my head and refused to let me buy her a pair of shoes with a father who swindled retirees out of their insurance settlements.
“He’s been reaching out,” Raina continues. “Earlier this week, he contacted Grant Burlingame’s office. Grant runs the Burlingame Group out of—”
“I know who he is.”
“Ramsey dropped your name in the context of you being close to his daughter. He also mentioned The NorthStar Way.”
“How do you know that?”
“Grant’s assistant is in my network.”
“Right.” I run a hand over my jaw. “The omnipotent assistant network.”
“It’s all Downton Abbey below-stairs stuff.” A faint smile crosses her face, gone before it fully forms.
“I pay you multiple six figures a year. Not exactly below-stairs wages.”
“Figure of speech.” She waves it off with the confidence of a woman who knows exactly what she’s worth. “I’m not trying to pry into your personal life, but there’s a reason you have me run background checks on people you get close to.”
I do, but this time I didn’t. “Avah’s different.”
“Is she, though?”
The question lodges between my ribs. I know she’s asking because Raina’s watched me get played.
Not specifically by women I’ve dated, but by people who presented themselves as one thing and turned out to be another.
Protecting me from this kind of exposure is half of why I pay her an exorbitant salary.
I bite back the urge to tell her about how Avah defended me to Mariel Johnson when she could have just as easily stayed silent.
That she showed up to dinner and the NorthStar retreat without asking for anything in return—even when I was willing to go legit Pretty Woman on her.
I want to explain how, when she looks at me, she sees the man behind the bank account, and makes me believe he’s the one I’m meant to become.
But I don’t, because Raina would think I’ve lost my mind. And more importantly, there’s a thread I can’t ignore tangled up in all of this. What if she’s been using me this whole time?
The thought makes me sick. I know she isn’t a con artist, but her father’s the kind of man who preys on proximity to wealth. And the fact that Avah never told me about him pummels against my insides in a way I’m not ready to unpack.
“The camp closing celebration is this weekend.” My voice is flat, which Raina will undoubtedly recognize as dangerous. “Avah and I are going up for the day with my sister.”
She nods, but doesn’t say anything else. Having planted the seed, we both know what comes next is up to me. She’s too good at her job to overplay her hand.
“If you’re sure about relocating, I’ll get the listing process started for this place.” She pivots as if we’ve been discussing real estate all along. “And I’ll pull together a shortlist of smaller properties in the area if you want to keep a Bay Area footprint.”
“I’m sure.” Liar. I’m not sure about anything right now.
She turns to go, but pauses at the edge of the kitchen. “For what it’s worth, I hope she is different.”
The door sensor chimes again, and I’m alone in this museum of a house, my brain swirling with questions I can’t answer. And don’t get me started on my heart.
I wanted to tell Avah I loved her this weekend at camp. Practiced it in my head on the flight from Colorado three days ago. On the drive from the airport to this bright, sterile house. In the shower this morning, with my forehead pressed against the tile like a man in prayer.
The plan was simple: tell her the truth.
She changed the trajectory of my life in ways I’m still trying to wrap my head around.
And somehow, this thing between us stopped being a complication, and she became the center of everything.
I don’t want any version of success—or life—that doesn’t include her.
Now I’m standing in twelve million dollars’ worth of proof that I might know how to acquire things, but don’t understand shit about what really matters. I can’t shake the humiliation that if I truly am a mark in all this, I never saw it coming.
Pulling out my phone, I study the photo Sloane sent. Is it possible to suss out Avah’s intentions in those blue eyes staring back at me? All that comes is more confusion, followed quickly by white-hot fury. At her, but mostly at myself for letting her past every one of my hard-earned defenses.
I hurl the phone across the room, and when it cracks against the white wall, it’s the loneliest sound I’ve ever heard.