Chapter 23
Day of the Deadline
There was nothing left. I had checked each box on my lists off—and then double-checked. Jeff and his crew passed Mr. Killington in the driveway as they fled before I could remember some other task for them to complete.
Jeff was invited to the party, but he and Dad insisted it was my moment to shine. Neither were the types to attend a society gala anyway. It wasn’t exactly my scene, but I knew what was expected of me, and it was a networking opportunity.
Rue had bounced up and down all through the final reveal of the kitchen. “Have you seen this stove? The things I’m going to make. These burners.” It was like witnessing a religious experience—all I could do was laugh as they opened every cabinet, searched every drawer, shouting about everything.
Even Ambrose had his moment. “I didn’t request a steamer.”
My fingers fluttered at his grim tone. “It’s supposed to be the best.” Top of the line, actually. Oliver had checked the reviews for me.
“I, uh …” His face crumpled with emotion.
He squeezed my hand before shooing me out of the room, insisting he still had to work on my outfit for the dinner.
The days blurred in a flurry of light installations, wall sconces, rugs, and every piece of furniture imaginable.
But now there was nothing left to do but survive Mr. Killington’s party. A grand reveal for the estate—and for Oliver.
Each person invited had accepted. Dressed in suits and floor-length gowns, no one observed museum etiquette, instead examining everything.
This was it, no hiding now. I had to face the music and whatever the response would be to the new and improved Killington Estate. I stood at the top of the stairwell, soaking it in. The chandelier was lit, each crystal individually cleaned. The light bounced, filling up the entryway, making a statement. I glanced anxiously at all the unfamiliar faces, everyone speaking in faux whispers, as I descended the stairs—until I saw him. Because they weren’t just whispering about the dramatic transformation. No, they were openly staring at the returned Killington heir. When his gaze hit mine, I almost tripped over my feet in my rush to reach him.
Oliver was dressed resplendently in a tux, his hair—the glossy black that filled my dreams—brushed back, curling around his ears. He met me at the bottom of the stairs and rested his palm on my lower back.
“Petal,” he murmured.
“Oliver.” He was handling this better than he had predicted; he was stronger than he allowed himself to believe.
“Wait, are those …?” His fingers clenched mine. “Are these suspenders?”
My Ambrose original was a creamy, buttery yellow, a shade off being a full spark of sunshine. But there was a warmth to it, a softness to the fabric, which he assured me was silk. “Dress” wasn’t exactly the right word to describe it, though that was the initial impression it gave. When I took a step, it revealed itself to be pants with a cape that split around my waist. There were a multitude of straps, two of which stretched over my shoulders, connecting to the cape.
I felt like myself, and more than gorgeous, aided a bit by the way Oliver’s eyes burned for me.
My cheeks rounded into a smile. “I think they’re Ambrose’s version of them.”
“We should go upstairs and …” His voice rumbled in my ear.
“Well, Oliver, are you going to introduce me to your little date here?”
Oliver’s fist squeezed for a different reason as we faced the man of the hour, the moment we had both been dreading.
“Grandfather, I’d like to formally introduce you to Bellamy Price of Price Restoration. All the compliments you have been getting tonight are because of her.”
Compliments?I couldn’t pretend that the opinion of Mr. Killington and his friends wasn’t about to decide the course of my career, but this moment wasn’t about me. They were in some sort of stare-off I wasn’t sure how to interrupt. Oliver hadn’t seen his grandfather in the flesh since his parents’ funeral. His sisters had had the right idea, doing this in a nonpublic forum, but the Killington patriarch did not have the same sensitivity.
“Ah, Ms. Price. Of course. And now the family is all together.” He gestured as his granddaughters joined our circle.
The tension rolled off Oliver as I greeted his sisters. Both murmured compliments about the house.
“Where is that idiot fiancé of yours?” Mr. Killington questioned Grace, voice carrying.
Grace didn’t seem disturbed with how her soon-to-be husband was referenced. “He came in the car with us, right?” She glanced at her twin for confirmation.
I laughed, but apparently it wasn’t a joke, with the strange looks I received, so I tried to convincingly switch to some sort of cough, because, you know, breathing can be difficult.
“Maybe we lost him.” Remy stared at her nails, flicking her middle finger first before closing her fist. Subtle, that one.
Mr. Killington’s face lit with a maniacal grin that made me uncomfortable. “I think it’s time to move into the dining room, shall we? Make sure that this isn’t some sort of facade. Really kick the tires.”
He escorted his granddaughters ahead of us, Grace’s fiancé forgotten. I thought his name was something like Tim? Jim? Right now, I wasn’t confident Grace could tell me his name either.
“Not the metaphor I would have used,” I muttered under my breath to Oliver, nudging him away from the throng of guests following their valiant leader. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be fine?” He grunted but allowed the back of our hands to brush against each other before we padded to the dining room, my fingers itching to hold on. Finn’s mural shined in the fully furnished room, the rug highlighting his color choices.
As the guests found their spots based on the gold lettered table cards, Mr. Killington remained standing, raising his champagne flute. “Please be seated, friends. I wanted to say a few words in greeting.”
Carter was halfway up, almost falling forward onto the dining table, seeming to lose his center of gravity. Total disaster only averted by Grace’s fiancé, Jim—Ted? No, that wasn’t it—who grabbed at Carter’s jacket and hauled him into his seat. Mr. Killington didn’t even blink.
Oliver was in the chair of honor to his grandfather’s right, his sisters seated across from him. My seat was toward the middle of the long table, on the same side as Oliver’s, making it almost impossible to see him without being obvious.
My knee jiggled under the table as Mr. Killington cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming here today. It’s a bit of a trek out to the middle of nowhere. This house—well, to say that if you had visited months ago, you would have seen something that should have been condemned would be putting it nicely.” His voice rumbled throughout the room, filling up every space, every inch of attention, as the guests chuckled.
“I had a few suggestions and offers to bulldoze the place, but that seemed cruel, what with my grandson living here.”
That earned him even less laughter, more awkward coughs. Carter cackled in full support, as if a flashing audience sign was above him. Gunning hard for the top spot in the will.
“All right, all right, enough with the jokes. This property has been in my family for generations. It was time to bring it back to its original glory, like our name, which has been wrongfully tarnished for years.” His gaze roamed to his right, landing on Oliver, as I crumpled the linen napkin in my lap. “When we reached out, there was only one name that was recommended.”
A pause.
“And then, when he was unavailable, we went to his daughter.”
I was desperate to crawl under the table and die. Here lies Bellamy. She was killed by professional embarrassment for having the audacity to be a girl.
“We had a few hiccups, but luckily my grandson was here to keep things in line.” The attention of the table focused on Oliver as he defiantly stared at his grandfather, and I hated that I wasn’t sitting next to him. “But I’m glad to say I discovered a diamond in the rough. A jewel in hiding. Sugar, stand up.”
I tried not to roll my eyes, tempted to pretend I wasn’t aware of who he was referring to because my name was not in fact “Sugar.” Or how he’d glossed over how he’d doubted me every step of the way and sought to short us the money.
“This young lady, under the daily observation of my grandson, brought this place back from the brink. I encourage you all to wander around, ask Ms. Price questions—though, please, not about the price tag.”
More awkward laughter. I tried to return to my seat, but Mr. Killington narrowed his eyes. I was expected to keep living through this humiliation.
“And if you use her services, don’t forget who discovered her.”
I wanted to stab that man’s hand with a fork as he lifted his glass. Everyone else followed suit.
Except for one. Oliver leaned further back in his chair, eyes catching mine. Filled with fire and pride, he raised his glass toward me. The stupid speech was left behind as I winked at him, reluctant to sit and lose this chance. His hair was falling into his eye and my fingers itched to touch it, push it back.
“So, you are the Bellamy Price I’ve been hearing so much about.” The woman seated to my left, with her gray hair in a chin-length bob, gently brushed my arm to snag my attention. It took me a moment to recognize her.
“Oh, Ms. Roth.”
The nerves were back and in charge. She didn’t merely work at the Bib; she was the head curator. The woman who’d inspired me and made me think there could be a different path from the one my father had forged. “It’s an honor. I can’t tell you how much I respect you and your work.” I took a peek back down the table, ready to share my excitement, but my view to Oliver was blocked.
Her hand batted away my compliment. “I have never had someone come across my desk so highly recommended.”
Recommended? By whom? I hadn’t sent in an application yet. I was waiting until the estate had been finished, a plan I had assumed Dad was in full agreement with. “Ms. Roth, if my father called you …”
“Oh no, though I reached out to him for some more information. I know Maurice well. These are small circles we operate in. But no, I’ve been sworn to the strictest confidence. What I can tell you is that you have an enormous fan.”
My stomach flipped, mind wracking for who it could be.
“They wrote a generous note about how competent you are and shared some before and after pictures. Made you sound like a miracle worker. I spoke with your contractor too and a few of your other contacts, and now I’m quite sure there was no exaggeration. You are the future of our profession.”
Was this happening? I was talking to Eileen Roth, and she was complimenting me?
“I assume you have something already lined up, but I would love to have you visit the museum. See if we could interest you in a position? It may not seem as exciting, but there are benefits without all the hassles of travel.”
I had to pick my jaw up off the floor. “I would love that, yes.”
“Wonderful. My assistant will send you an email, and we can set something up. No doubt you’re going to have many offers, but I must express how impressed I am with what you’ve done here. And from what I’ve heard, under an impossible deadline.” Her eyes quickly glanced at Mr. Killington holding court at the head of the table.
“Oh, well, Mr. Killington—”
“Say no more.”
I wasn’t sure I had said anything, but I nodded, still floating somewhere around disbelief and shock. And a nagging concern for what this meant. I should be happy. This was everything I had wanted for years. It filled me with pride to be sitting in this room, my vision coming together, all the small touches, down to the color of the candlesticks.
With little prodding, she shared with me the current events at the museum. Plans for upcoming exhibits and long-term changes she was hoping to implement in the next few seasons. She had me walk her through what the process at the estate had been like.
We were all in different phases of dessert when an “Enough!” rang out, silence descending on the room. Even I could admit that was a useful skill. Everyone’s attention focused on Mr. Killington, who appeared to be in a standoff with the rest of his family based on the glares and Carter’s wide-eyed gaze. Throughout dinner there had been whispers that were becoming harder and harder to ignore—about Oliver, the family, the future of the business.
“Why don’t our guests start their tour of the house? Then we can all head to the ballroom,” Oliver suggested, the tenor of his voice reminiscent of his grandfather’s commands.
The room stood, me with them, when Mr. Killington’s eyes caught mine, and he jerked his head, beckoning me over to where the family sat. This time I dropped into the seat next to Oliver’s.
It was clear why this man led boardrooms, had subordinates who were rumored to leave his office weeping after being in there for only a few minutes. He was the picture of intimidation.
“Ms. Price, tell me, how has my grandson occupied himself this summer?” Mr. Killington leaned back in his chair, causing the wood to creak.
Oliver’s suspicions that I was a spy didn’t seem so farfetched now. I sat on my palms, afraid that he would feel this was some sort of confirmation. “Things were quite hectic with the remodel and construction. We didn’t spend much time together.”
Oliver and I had discussed it the night before: he had begged me to limit his involvement, selflessly standing aside so that he wouldn’t be recognized for his contributions.
“Ah, well then.” My response seemed to confirm something for Mr. Killington.
“I actually helped extensively with the remodel,” Carter cut in. “You mentioned Oliver oversaw the project, but I was here too. I think Bellamy would say I was a vital piece to the puzzle, the puzzle of the remodel of the …” Carter got lost in his metaphor, staring down at his hands as if they would reveal the answer.
Oliver’s hand wrapped around my wrist underneath the table, and I pulled it onto my lap.
“Well, Oliver, I’m disappointed to have never received a response to my offer. It doesn’t appear that you are taking your duties seriously. I have given you enough time to experience your freedom, or whatever is that you’ve been doing in this dump. But now it’s time to buckle down and assume your place.”
Oliver’s lips were pressed together in a straight line. I’d take his anger, his frustration, growling—anything—but not this defeat. His grandfather was all but confirming Oliver’s belief that he had let his family down.
“Your lack of commitment is frustrating your sisters, who both believe they are better matches. I’m not sure I’d go that far, but at least they are doing their duty. And the board is getting anxious. The stock is a mess. It’s time for an answer.” Mr. Killington’s fist landed on the table, rattling the glassware.
“Are you moving up my deadline?” Oliver’s tone was flat as he met his grandfather’s eye.
“No, I will honor our agreement. But a preview would be appropriate. It’s not just you this decision effects.”
“Oh, come on, who wouldn’t want to be CEO of a major international conglomerate? Not me, I can tell you that much.” Carter searched around the table for someone to agree with him. His family ignored him, probably used to his, well, Carterness. “It’s so great how family centered this company is. Always finding room for every member of the family.”
“Carter, get me a scotch. Tell them if they haven’t opened it yet, it’s time for the twenty-year Macallan.” Mr. Killington dismissed Carter, and I couldn’t deny my relief. Things were tense enough.
“Listen, if someone else is a better fit, I’m happy to end up somewhere else in the company,” Oliver announced to the table, the strength returning to his voice. “If the goal is the stock price, what if I can offer an alternative, something better?”
I squeezed his fingers, proud he was speaking up for himself.
“If you believe we haven’t explored our options, you are sorely mistaken. Your father expected it of you, I expect it of you, the public and the board expect it of you. You are the heir. It’s time to accept your place and stop living in this fantasy.”
Grace and Remy glared at their grandfather before exchanging dark glances with each other. I had hoped they would ally with their brother, but the divide Mr. Killington was stoking between the siblings was alive and well.
“You kept out of the media better than your sisters. I will give you that. They seem to think that showing their cooter or getting high off their ass at three AM, sprawled on a bathroom floor, is the making of a CEO.” Mr. Killington beat his fist on the table again. “It is time to stop fucking around.”
“I—” Remy began just as Grace said “That was taken out of context—”
Tim/Jim was noticeably quiet, staring into his wineglass, searching for something? His guts?
“Enough! I told you both how this was going to go. I am the Killington Empire. This is my decision. You can either sit here silently, or you can leave.” Mr. Killington gulped down the rest of his goblet of wine. “And let me make this crystal clear for you …”
My thumb brushed against Oliver’s palm; his pulse was racing.
“The appearance that you have a choice is a fallacy. There is no decision. There is this one future. On your thirtieth birthday, we will announce you as the next CEO.”
The rest of the Killington clan’s attention was on the table in front of them, no one willing to speak up as a crease formed between Oliver’s eyes. I had no experience with boards or stocks, but I understood family.
So I pushed back from the table, stood on shaking legs, and demanded, “Stop it.”