17. Daisy
Chapter 17
Daisy
T he smell of browned butter and freshly baked bread greeted Daisy as she flung open the door to Le Vue de Pavilion, an upscale French café several blocks from the office. Although she had back-to-back meetings bookending her lunch break, an urgent phone conversation summoned her for fresh pastries and wine.
Daisy smoothed over her skirt, pushed her purse higher on her arm, and tightened the coat she grabbed before leaving the office. The weather for a late September afternoon ended up warmer than expected, dry without winds from the north sweeping in.
She missed the coast and sea breeze more than ever.
“Daisy, over here!” a voice called to her from one of the tables. Daisy’s eyes scanned the room until she found the faces of several investors seated in the back. Her stomach hardened into a pit, leaving her breathless.
Daisy’s hand waved while she strolled over, feeling her pace drag harder than usual. Meetings with investors usually didn't scare her, not with enough time to prepare. However, she walked into the café blind to their intentions, sidling along the tightrope with her reputation perched as extra weight on her shoulders.
Fixing on a megawatt smile, Daisy stopped at the investors' table, charm dialed to ten. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. It’s lovely to see you on this fine afternoon.”
“That it is,” the domineering voice of Edna Bullocks, one of the more influential shareholders for the company alongside her husband, eclipsed the other greetings from the crowd. “Please join us. This lunch is for you, after all.”
"At the risk of sounding unlike myself, I'm not sure if we're celebrating or if this is an intervention," Daisy replied.
Luckily, her voice treaded along the thin line between informality and closeness carefully enough to invoke rich, amused laughter from those gathered around the table. Although she held her smile hostage—drawn taut across her face—Daisy's chest clenched until the breath dried up.
But Edna gestured for her to take one of the spare chairs around the table. "When it comes to you, Daisy, I never have to worry. This is a celebration of you, my dear."
Knowing better than to protest, Daisy sat herself among the investors. She crossed her ankles under the table, cutting off the urge to bounce her legs. Daisy couldn’t help the restless energy spreading through her limbs, crackling and waiting for a tiny mistake to set it off. The expectant eyes of the investors followed her every move; when she unfurled the napkin with her place settings or brushed her loose waves out of her face, their eyes pinned her down.
Daisy cleared her throat. "I never turn down a celebration, especially with such distinguished company."
"Good," Edna hummed, her voice so overwhelmingly saccharine, as she swirled her glass of red. "See, we've all been discussing what a great CEO you'll make in a few months. All of us here see what Harrison sees in you. If you believe the whispers around the office, others see it too."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. We've conducted some inquiries and found that your prospective tenure as CEO promises higher employee morale, increasing our social status in local circles. You have a reputation for being undeniably professional and highly competent. People are thrilled with you or Jensen, but a woman CEO gets buzz."
Daisy's tongue slid over the back of her teeth, chewing on a response to that. So, people liked the idea of a female CEO, but did that mean people wanted her to be in charge? Or would any woman be good for optics?
"I'm honored by their faith in me. I won't let their confidence be misplaced." Demure wasn't her style, but Daisy still treaded carefully. She settled on something polite, appropriate for the company she held around the table of red wine and half-eaten pastries. No matter the occasion, she always knew how to play the game.
Energetic chatter erupted from the investors, followed by the raise of wine glasses or other cocktails despite the early hour. Daisy's hands folded over her lap, signaling for a waitress so she could join them in enjoying some wine. It had to be five o'clock somewhere.
A nearby waitress caught sight of her hand, sidling over with wine from behind the bar. She topped off Daisy's glass until the bottle of red ran empty.
Daisy took her wine, finding a smile easier than before. "Could I get a menu, please? Oh, and a cup of beef bourguignon with a baguette to start. Thanks."
"Of course, Miss."
Daisy and her wine leaned backward in her chair, slipping into the moment. No longer did anxiety bear down on her chest, breathing a little easier without the suspense hanging over her head.
But her peace crumbled at the pointed cough from someone around the table, yanking Daisy back into the game. Her eyes landed on the wry smile of Spencer Fitzgerald, another prominent investor with a penchant for getting a little too sloppy at the company's black-tie events. After instances of graphic lamenting about literal war stories, the people who sought his company grew small each year.
Another small thing to note about Mr. Fitzgerald: he often flitted around Kenneth Malone and his cronies like a lap dog. Yet, he always seemed to attend gatherings meant for her supporters. He made for a terrible spy.
The smug twist of his mouth preceded a quiet, brusk laugh. "So, does the beginning of this new era signal the end of the Ramsey dynasty before it even begins? I'd admit, you're a woman who knows how to fight her battles."
Immediate but awkward reactions flashed across the faces of the investors around him. The others stayed so still that Daisy wondered if they heard at all. Mr. Fitzgerald's clumsy attempt at a trap came with neon, flashing red flags attached, screaming for her to run as far away from the statement as possible.
Daisy let the air simmer with the anticipation, held like a bated breath, while she sipped her wine. Courage pooled into her throat as the wine went down easy, stealing her resolve to pull the trigger on the sharp-witted response she turned on her tongue.
“Truthfully, I am a Ramsey. Harrison molded me in his generous, accomplished image when he took me under his wing. I may not have his last name, but as his protégé, I’m like him in every other way that counts. I shall continue his vision as he intended. . . so the Ramsey dynasty will live on, no matter what anyone else might assume. Every other speculation is made in the absence of knowledge.”
The words sank in, letting their double meaning flourish in the silence around the table. Anyone who doubted Daisy's loyalty to Harrison was a fucking fool, speaking out of ignorance so lethal it might sign the death of their career s.
No one rushed to contradict her words. Daisy sipped her wine again while letting the conversation recover from the reality check, enjoying the flustered sight of Mr. Fitzgerald squirming in his seat.
Besides, her loyalty to the Ramsey name would outlast any external force hellbent on destroying her, like the Malones. She imagined their heads might burst into flames if they knew how their perfect ‘savior’ in Jensen routinely got on his knees for her .
She wouldn’t spill their business, but the knowledge she held over their heads would ruin their day.
Edna raised her wine glass into the air as if she sensed the chance to recover the conversation from the awkwardness. "That's a proclamation deserving of a toast. To Daisy and continuing the great work."
Daisy lifted her glass, ready to chime in something good-humored with the mood back on track. However, the outburst of forced giggling stole her attention from the table.
She watched as two people to her right—a tall man in a dark suit and the very young woman on his arm—scooted past their table for a cozy, intimate booth in the corner of the room. Their table fell right into Daisy’s line of sight.
She studied the girl in quiet, quick glances. She wore a dark dress stretched across her body with no room to breathe, and expensive jewelry glittered around her neck and forearms. But her youthful gleam and the softer curve of her cheeks stopped Daisy cold; the girl hardly looked legal, dripped out in designer clothing and grasping at her male companion for his attention.
He could be her father, an uncle, or a brother,but the latter sounded too far-fetched from how the young girl batted her eyes at him. Daisy moved in circles where younger wives or flings with twenty-somethings by older men existed as an unfortunate, uncomfortable reality. So, she watched, unable to pull her gaze away from the scene as the world faded into background noise.
“Ooh, everything here looks so good. Can we get some macarons to go?” The girl giggled while sliding into the booth, her back facing Daisy. Yet, her voice carried over the quiet conversations between the booth and her table.
“Of course, sweetheart,” the girl’s companion remarked. Three simple words, but Daisy’s whole body froze. Her muscles stiffened up, barely registering the feeling of her wine glass leaving her fingers. She hoped she settled the glass on the table instead of spilling it everywhere. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
The girl giggled while the man headed for his side of the booth, but neither noticed the horrified observer watching their interaction. Daisy’s eyes refused to break away while her body went cold.
Turn around. Turn around. Don’t be him.
Yet, her silent plea withered when the man’s face came into view, cementing the recognition with a choking certainty. Of course she did; she'd never forget the face of the man who abandoned her.
Lawrence Riggs. Her father.
Daisy couldn’t breathe while staring at his neatly trimmed sandy brown hair and the dark brown eyes as detached as she remembered them. Twelve years later, the hateful glint when he had declared his intention to leave haunted Daisy’s childhood like a specter, casting its shadow over those memories.
The night her father left their family to struggle, her mother ushered Dex and Daisy into their shared bedroom and closed the door behind them. She told them not to come out until she got them, but the walls hadn't been thick enough to muffle the screaming of Lawrence while he cursed at her mom, blaming her for their poverty and ruining his life. She "ruined" his life when she chose to bring two kids into the world, and Daisy never forgot those words.
She had clamped her shaking hands over Dex's ears, only three at the time to her thirteen, so she heard it all. Every word stuck to her skin, stinging harder than bullets. Lawrence vanished from their lives for good when he slammed the front door to their house.
He never made contact and left them to struggle until Daisy yanked them out of debt by the skin of her teeth. But there the useless bastard stood, less than ten feet away from Daisy, with a girl decked in designer and doting on her like a loving man. Like an honorable one.
How old was that girl? She couldn’t be older than Daisy. Oh, God.
The buzzing in Daisy’s ears morphed violently from a low hum into something agonizing, clattering against her head with screamed instructions about how to proceed. Confront him. Leave the shop. Cry. Get angry and throw your wine. Lose your temper. Drag the girl away.
Each scenario played before her eyes, worse than the one that preceded it, but Daisy balked all the same. The hot churning of bile crawled up her throat—no matter how hard she swallowed, the sensation spread across her skin in a flush. An empty stomach of red wine boiled until her chest burned hot.
She was going to be sick.
“Daisy? Earth to Daisy?” Edna’s voice pierced through the chaos, unraveling Daisy's composure faster than she could catch it. The call of her name broke the paralyzing trance Lawrence and his 'sweetheart' forced on her, bringing Daisy back to the table.
Her eyes scanned the faces of the investors, but none of them appeared aware of her panic or the walls closing in. Even with her attention shifted from her father in the booth with his barely legal girl, bile pressed against the back of her mouth in a warning.
"If you'll excuse me for a moment. I'll be back." Daisy climbed from her chair and smiled politely despite her rush for the bathroom. Her legs wobbled after every unsteady stride, threatening to take her down.
Humiliation blistered hot behind her eyes while Daisy choked on the vomit racing up her throat. Red wine never felt better coming up than going down.
She crashed into the bathroom, not caring to check under the other stalls and confirm she was alone. Daisy scrambled into the nearest stall, slamming the door shut. Her fingers fumbled with the lock twice, distracted by pained, dry heaves.
She clawed at her coat in desperation until the fabric loosened from around her chest, tearing the buttons out of their fastenings. A cough interrupted her as she leaned forward, coat pushed away from her mouth.
Daisy shrugged off her coat while heaving hard. She managed to strip and toss it over the door behind her. Her hands dragged her dress to puddle around her thighs as Daisy kneeled on the tile.
She wore tights as a thin layer of separation between her and the bathroom floor, no less shameful than her bare skin. Daisy gripped the toilet and buried her face into the rim as she lost the battle to nausea.
Time passed unbearably slow while Daisy listened to her dry heaving, interrupted frequently by the squelch of vomit or the quiet splash when the bile hit the toilet water. Her nails scraped against the porcelain underbelly, echoing off the walls harshly.
Daisy gave in until her stomach hit empty. She fumbled for the handle with her eyes screwed shut—too afraid to see the mess she made. She slumped back onto her knees, screaming from the indent of the tiles through her tights.
She opened her eyes, stuck in her shame. The taste of red wine and regret stained her mouth while Daisy caught her breath on the bathroom floor. Her shallow pants filled the silence with their desperation; she wobbled onto her feet, ready to flee from the scene.
Daisy tugged on her coat and rushed to the sink. Cold water ran into the bowl as Daisy switched the faucet on high, bending down to invite the cleanse into her mouth. She spit into the sink until her hands stopped shaking, too unsteady to hold water.
With a paper towel, Daisy cleaned away any water on her face. She reached into her coat's pocket for the small tube of lipstick stashed away for a touch-up after lunch when the bathroom door swung open.
Standing in the doorframe, the girl flounced into the bathroom to the metallic chimes from her jewelry. Twinkling noise invaded Daisy’s skull as the girl chose the sink right beside her despite the three other perfectly good sinks down the row.
Daisy observed the girl in her peripheral view, noting how the girl stared unabashedly at her. She braced, half-expecting to have been caught watching the interactions between this stranger and her estranged father.
The girl, however, sucked in a breath and smiled so innocently that the sweetness carved Daisy’s heart out through her ribs. “Sorry to bother you, but I love your dress. Where’d you get it?”
“Oh, I ordered it online from Rose & Luxe. It’s ‘Goddess’ from their office attire line,” Daisy stumbled over her words, more awkward than she intended. But the girl’s face brightened, blissfully unaware of the tension.
“Thank you! It's so nice to find someone who doesn't gatekeep all the cute clothes and trendy spots in town. Granted, I haven't met too many people since I'm new,” the girl rambled, twisting the knife a little deeper between Daisy’s ribs.
“New, huh? You don’t look older than college age.”
"I'm twenty! I transferred to a college downtown to attend auditions and stuff."
“Like movie auditions?”
"Exactly! The industry is cutthroat, but my boyfriend thinks I'm made for stardom."
'Boyfriend' reminded Daisy of her father sitting in the cramped booth, stirring the queasy feelings up. She grabbed the sink, chewing hard on her cheek to slow the nausea.
“Oh? I’m sure he’s very proud,” Daisy said, finding her tongue heavier than lead while forcing the words out. “Is he waiting for you or something?”
"Yeah, I got a callback, so we're celebrating with some pastries. He's the best," the girl giggled.
Daisy catapulted somewhere between shame, disgust, and fear. How could this girl not see his intentions to use her? Did she honestly believe a man twice her age—who had a daughter older than her—would see her as an equal?
But she swallowed those questions, far too aware of the delusions a young mind would bend to believe. She hummed, “I wish you luck on your stardom journey. But could I give you some advice?”
“Sure,” the girl replied, eyes wide and earnest.
“Be careful around older men. They might seem invested in you or your successes, but there’s a reason they don’t go for women their own age. Innocence is like currency, so keep it close,” Daisy remarked and bolted for the door, not interested in sticking around for the protests and the ‘he would never’ schtick.
She had been na?ve once, young and full of hopes, chasing after men who had no business in her life. But she never gave them her hearts, too headstrong and unpredictable for them. Never the dating type.
Daisy barely cleared the bathroom door before she collided with a body. Her hands instinctively shot out to steady herself, and the stranger grasped her wrists to help.
"Are you alright?" Her father's voice calling out to her sent a jolt straight through Daisy, paralyzing her to her core. Yet, her body recoiled, shrinking away from him. The venom of his final words of regret and hatred toward her mom echoed in her head. He meant those words to Daisy, too.
Daisy said nothing. Instead, she lifted her head to meet his eyes, challenging him with her stare. Beyond a few wrinkles, he looked identical to the day he left while her mom aged from the stress of raising two kids and narrowly avoiding homelessness.
She, however, looked like a carbon copy of her mom.
Daisy stood firm, waiting for the recognition to sink in. He allegedly loved her mom once, so her face should haunt him, but whatever reaction she hoped for, it never came.
Her father stared blankly at her, letting the silence fester until the bathroom door opened behind her. Daisy stepped around him without a word, even as the heat of his gaze bore holes in her back.
She needed a drink.