Chapter 27
Phoenix
My grandmother oversees her empire from a massive corner office, one with floor-to-ceiling windows, two large couches, and a wet bar.
Clarence’s office is right next to hers, and on the other side of his is Lawrence’s, even though Lawrence doesn’t technically hold an executive position—yet. Their offices aren’t on the same level as Mavis’s, but they’re still nice; so was mine when I worked in this building.
Holland and I pass my cousin’s and my uncle’s offices on our way to Mavis’s, and both of them notice through their windows; Lawrence gets to his feet immediately, looking interested, but Clarence just watches us with narrowed eyes.
I used to wonder why Mavis didn’t care to leave the company to her son instead of her grandson, but I think Clarence himself would prefer Lawrence to receive the title. Lawrence would be easy to manipulate from behind the scenes, an easy puppet. Clarence and Mavis both like that.
When we reach the door to Mavis’s suite, Wyatt is already there, waiting for us. He has his briefcase in one hand and his large leather folder tucked under the other arm, and the little nod he gives me assures me that everything is ready.
So I don’t bother knocking. I’m not here to play nice, and I’m not here to ask permission. She asked to see me anyway; she knows I’m coming. I simply walk in, Holland close behind me.
And like I thought, Mavis is waiting for me—waiting for us. There are no papers in front of her, and she’s not looking at her computer. Her sharp eyes find mine the second we enter; she seems more foreboding when she’s sitting behind her desk, and even though this room is full of bright natural light, she makes the whole place feel stifling and oppressive.
“Mavis,” I say curtly. She’s in a new chair, I notice with interest, one that looks more like a recliner than an actual office chair.
Maybe her health isn’t so great after all.
“Hmm,” she says, raising one penciled-in eyebrow at me and then turning her gaze on my wife. It’s the only greeting we receive, and I don’t expect anything else.
“You asked to see us,” I say. I straighten my jacket and then approach the desk. “We’re here.”
Mavis doesn’t look back at me, however. She’s still examining Holland, her thin lips curled in displeasure, her features a haughty mask.
“Turn,” she says in her thin voice, pointing one crooked finger at my wife.
Holland blinks at her. “What?”
“Turn,” she says again. “Turn around. Let me look at the woman who sold herself to my grandson.”
Holland’s face turns red, not with embarrassment but with anger; that little jaw muscle is twitching on the left side, and her normally lively eyes have gone cold. She shoots me a glance and then rotates on the spot. When she’s facing Mavis once again, she raises her brows expectantly at my grandmother.
She’s cool and composed and Mavis will never, ever see the parts of her that make her who she is. The woman who sold herself— I try to swallow my fury, but it continues to rise in my throat, in my neck, spreading over my skin.
Mavis inspects her for several more seconds, but when she finally reacts, it’s just to harrumph. Then she waves a dismissive hand and says, “You may see yourself out.”
“Gladly,” Holland mutters, but I grab her arm just as she’s turning toward the door.
She does not appreciate this, judging by the glare she sends me.
I loosen my grip. “She stays or I go,” I say.
Mavis shifts with irritation, the sun glinting in her iron curls. “Don’t be dramatic,” she says, her voice impatient. She waves her hand at Holland again. “Get out.”
From over by the wet bar, a flash of movement catches my eye, and I realize that her secretary has been in here the whole time. I’m not worried about the secretary or the assistant—also tucked over by the wet bar, I see, and also completely silent. What I want to avoid is causing a scene that would attract the attention of security.
So although there are many, many things I’d like to say or do, I simply give a sardonic little bow. Then I turn away, and together Holland and I head toward the door, where Wyatt is stationed.
“Wait.”
I freeze at the bark of Mavis’s voice; Holland slows much more reluctantly.
When I look back at my grandmother, she speaks again. “This is hardly the hill to die on,” she snaps as her body twitches with anger. “While I’m impressed by your dedication to the Butterfield legacy, you took this too far. I couldn’t care less about the state of your supposed marriage, but the fact that you got caught is…sloppy. If I found out, others certainly will. ”
My fingers curl into fists, but she’s not entirely wrong. It was my oversight; I should have expected one of the family would break in and steal the contract.
“I suppose it means nothing to you that our marriage has since become real in every sense of the word,” I say. It’s not a question, because I know the answer. But I still have to ask.
My grandmother just snorts. “So you slept with a pretty girl. That doesn’t?—”
“My wife,” I spit out through gritted teeth. “She is my wife. ”
“At the moment, perhaps,” Mavis says. Then she leans forward and presses a button on her landline. “Marshana, bring in your candidates, please.” Then she turns her shrewd, pitiless eyes on Holland. “She’s out,” she says. “Certainly unfit for the position of partner to an executive, to say nothing of a CEO.”
A small knock sounds at the door, and then my mother enters, hunched into a half-bow and followed by four young women.
“You seemed to prefer blonde,” Mavis says as she waves in the women—yes, all blonde, all dressed immaculately, all objectively beautiful. “So that’s what your mother looked for.”
I don’t prefer blondes. I prefer Holland.
“You,” I say, jerking my chin at the woman nearest me. She has on a tailored tweed pantsuit and diamond earrings that are either wildly expensive or very fake. “What would you do if I put a dead fish in your mailbox?”
Her jaw drops; the other three look at each other, scandalized.
I nod. “And you,” I say to the woman next to her, this one with her hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. “Would you ever replace the cream in my Oreos with toothpaste? ”
From behind me, Holland snorts—like she’s amused all over again by her own prank. But Ponytail’s face just shifts from faintly scandalized to faintly disgusted.
“That’s very childish,” she says.
I nod again, because she’s absolutely right. It’s very childish. And then, for a moment, I stand perfectly still. I listen to my pulse pounding in my ears and I feel the sting of my fingernails digging into my palms. Then I glance around and catch Wyatt’s questioning eye.
I duck my head, answering his silent inquiry.
“Is this your final decision?” I say to Mavis, pulling a still-grinning Holland closer to my side.
Mavis sniffs. “Of course.”
I exhale as a surreal wave of relief crashes over me. “In that case,” I say, and Wyatt hurries forward, presenting me with an envelope, “I’d like to formally tender my resignation. Consider this my two weeks’ notice.” I stride forward and drop the envelope on Mavis’s desk.
And although she barely moves, for the first time, a crack appears in her facade; her ancient face twitches with something like disbelief and anger before returning to its cold mask.
“Don’t be stupid,” she says. She swipes at her desk, pushing the envelope off and sending it to the floor. “I’ll pretend this lapse in judgment never happened.”
“Pretend whatever you’d like,” I say with a shrug as something jubilant and free rises in my chest. “I’m still resigning.” I can feel the adrenaline racing through my veins, the twitch of nervous energy, my fight-or-flight preparing for the precarious, unprecedented situation I’ve put myself in.
“Listen here,” Mavis snaps, and her mask disappears entirely, leaving open anger in its place. “You can’t?—”
“I think you’ll find that I can,” I cut her off. I vaguely notice the feeling of Holland’s arm looping through mine, an anchor I didn’t realize I needed. “Feel free to email me with any further questions,” I go on. “I’ll swing by HR to start the paperwork.”
When we turn our backs on Mavis, she’s gaping, mouthing wordlessly. When we leave the office, I feel an immense burden falling away from my shoulders.
And when we pass Lawrence and Clarence in the hallway, I could swear I’m taller than I was when I went in.
“So what you’re saying is that the qualifications for being your wife include a tolerance for dead fish and toothpaste-filled Oreos. Did I understand that correctly?” Holland says as soon as she and I and Wyatt enter the elevator.
I don’t let myself smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“And were you ever going to tell me you were quitting?” she goes on, more serious now.
“I was,” I say, looking over at her. “I just wasn’t sure when it would happen, so I held off.” Then, turning to Wyatt, I add, “We’ll look through the house’s security footage tonight.”
“Is there anything else you need to do over here before we go back to Sunset Harbor?” Holland asks after an odd moment of hesitation.
“No,” I say. Then, frowning at the way she’s playing with the ends of her hair, I ask, “Do you?”
“Yeah, actually,” she says. “If we have time.”
I’m about to ask her what she wants to do, but Wyatt speaks first. “Why don’t you two take the car, then, and I’ll handle the paperwork here? I need to gather some things from my office as well, so I’ll get a ride back to the ferry later.”
“That’s fine,” I say vaguely, my gaze still on Holland. Her face is pale, but her eyes are determined, and her lips are set in a stubborn line. I want to ask what’s going on, but I force myself to wait; something tells me she might not want to explain while Wyatt is present.
The second we get in the car, though, I speak.
“Where are we going?” I say.
“Before I tell you,” she says, shooting me a stern glance, “you have to be nice.”
My instinct is to protest that I’m always nice, but then I look more closely at her; she’s wearing a bossy, severe expression, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. In her eyes I find anxiety or maybe even fear—a level of hesitance and vulnerability that have me agreeing before I even realize it.
“Yeah,” I say in a hoarse voice. “I’ll be nice.”
Her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a deep breath. “I think…” she says, trailing off. She wears a faraway look for just a moment, but when she turns her gaze back to me, her expression is clear once more. “Yes. I think I want to go to the river.”
“The river?” I say.
She nods. “The river. The one where—” She breaks off, swallows, and then speaks again. “The one where we crashed.” She pauses as my heart begins to beat faster. “The one where Trev died. I want to go there.”