Chapter 3
THREE
SHAE
“ A re you really going to skip out on this vacation?” My mom sniffs into the phone, which sounds entirely too loud in my Mercedes G-Wagon as it rings from the speakers.
It’s almost the end of August, and I’m supposed to be seeing the lavender fields with my mother and seven-year-old twins in Europe right now.
Instead, I’m sitting in traffic as I round The Loop to head toward Wednesday Designs’ boutique in River North.
I have no right at all to be annoyed with her, but there’s still an itch of something beneath my skin as she asks the question again . I already feel like shit enough, but with the acquisition hiccups on the Keystone deal, I had to miss out on the trip to France with the kids.
Which is doubly screwed up, because the entire reason for the trip was to make up for missing the end of their school year.
“I’m sorry, Ma. If there were any other way, I’d make it happen.” Guilt is such a dirty feeling.
She blows out a disappointed breath, and I flex my fingers against the steering wheel.
Lord knows I need the break from work, and I miss my kids as much as I’d miss breathing, but with crisis after crisis rolling down the pike, I haven’t had a chance to eat somewhere that’s not my desk or a business lunch. Much less flounce across the world on vacation.
“Shae Olivya,” she says, disappointment heavy in her tone. “I suppose it’s okay. There are only a few more days left anyway. The kids are wiped, and I know I can’t wait to get home myself.”
More guilt. I definitely deserve to feel guilty.
Mama’s been there for me through all of this—my pregnancy, those early weeks after the twins were born when I felt like I was going to die from sleep deprivation.
Orisun wouldn’t exist without her and Daddy.
They took out a second mortgage on the Bronzeville house to fund my buy-in, which gave me the shares I needed for majority control.
She’s been with me through it all, and the kids love their GiGi.
And still….
“I’m really sorry, Mama. If I could have gotten away from work, I would have. I promise.”
She makes a sad sound over the line as I turn onto Ontario Street.
“I just know one thing. I ain’t going nowhere outside my house anytime soon. Heck, I might even miss out on church a few weekends,” she says.
Mama still lives in Bronzeville despite all my efforts to get her out of the South Side and into a condo with security, amenities, and people who are also over the age of sixty-five.
She’s a two percent shareholder of Orisun, which makes her a multi-millionaire on paper—but she says the only place she wants to rest her bones is the house she shared with Daddy.
But she said once we left Massachusetts for good, nothing but Jesus Christ Himself could get her to leave her house again, and seeing as this was the last place she had my daddy, well, I don’t blame her.
I feel blessed that I had him for as long as I did. He was diagnosed with prostate cancer a year after Mama and I came home from Cambridge, which, in a way, was perfect timing. It’s like God let me finish my program and be back home in time to help my father live out his last years.
He’s been gone for eighteen months now, and while the loss doesn’t get easier to deal with, the pain of his absence is starting to feel almost normal.
What a thought.
“Have Lacey and Norah not been pulling their weight? They know this isn’t a vacation for them, and they should be working to take care of the kids more than you.
You’re the one who is on vacation,” I say, feeling a prickle of agitation hit me again.
Am I going to have to fire another set of nannies?
Jesus, no.
“Lacey and Norah are sweethearts. They’re wonderful with the kids. Much better than the four oafs you sent along with us.”
I chuckle. “Mama, those are guards. They’re meant to bleed into the background.”
“Well,” my mother says primly, “you’d think they’d at least want to have a conversation just a little bit, but no, dear. You’ve sent quite enough help along.”
So what’s the problem? I want to shout, hoping that she could sit and enjoy the expensive free trip I’ve given her. But I know that’s not possible—not only because she’s my mama, and Opal Rivers hasn’t ever backed down from a cause she thinks is right, but also because she’s not angry for herself.
I know she’s not.
“Can I talk to them? Are they awake?” I hold my breath, knowing that I might be able to get Raiden on the line, but I know Tempest will decline to speak to me.
What was it the parenting coach said about their big emotions?
“They’ve had a long day, so they’re already down for the evening. Regardless, you and I still need to talk.”
Mama goes silent as I turn onto State Street.
Three. Two.
“How could you cancel on them again?” Instead of the hard, accusatory tone I expect her to take, she’s gentle when she delivers the question. Almost as if she knows it’s a bomb waiting to explode, and the clock’s counting down like in that Peter Pan remake, Hook.
“I…” I blow out a breath, my shoulders tensing.
“Shae, the whole point of the trip was to make up for missing their first-grade graduation. Tempest practiced What a Wonderful World for three weeks straight, and Raiden got the highest award for the year, and yet?—”
“And yet I missed it. I know, Mom. It’s not like I wanted to disappoint my children. I love them! I wanted to be there. But I’m the only one who can do what’s needed for Orisun, and sh-stuff’s getting hard.”
I catch myself before I swear, and doing so takes some of the wind out of my sails.
“I’m sorry, Ma. I’ve told them I’m sorry over and over. If a trip to Disneyland Paris doesn’t make it up to them, I don’t know what will,” I say.
“Shae, they don’t want things or fancy trips. They want you, baby. That’s all they ever want, especially since you’re all they have.”
The road ahead warbles, and I realize I’m about to start crying, and I refuse. Turning the AC on blast, I shock my senses before sniffing and saying, “I’m doing my best, Mama.”
She’s silent in response to that statement.
“Baby…you don’t need to be a billionaire,” she says, her voice soft. I have to bite my lip to keep from snapping.
Mama won’t understand because I barely understand it myself.
A few years ago, I was thumbing through Forbes when I saw it: Storm Sandoval standing on a bluff somewhere that looked like Scotland, with a squall forming in the background. The dark, heavy clouds announced a powerful downpour was coming, but did Storm Sandoval care?
No.
Storm Sandoval can withstand anything and get on top.
That’s when I discovered that his company—the same company he swore was stolen from him—landed a five-billion-dollar valuation, topping his personal net worth in the same neighborhood.
Maybe if I’d seen that article today, I would have been able to flip past it. But with his teething children across from me in the small apartment I shared with my mom right outside Cambridge, all I could feel was burning rage.
How dare he experience near-vulgar monetary success while I’m here alone, dealing with the reality he left behind?
How. Fucking. Dare. He.
So, I made a vow: I would surpass Storm Sandoval by any means necessary.
I wouldn’t let him get the last laugh. I’d be better than him, live better than him, and be the one to step on his head on the rise to the top.
This singular mission has driven me forward in my pursuit of business success.
Even though I know it’s maladaptive, even harmful at times.
Especially when my children suffer the consequences.
“Yes, ma’am. I hear you,” I reply, my voice flat. “I’m just glad to see you all in a few days.”
There. Let’s end that discussion. I can admit Mama’s right. I don’t need to be a billionaire. No one does.
But I will be one.
“Well,” Mama says, “You have a good day, baby. I love you.”
I look at the clock on the dash, jumping at the sight because fuck, I’m already late for the fitting.
Late. I’m never late.
“Love you, too, Mama. Kiss the babies for me,” I rush to say with my thumb hovering over the End Call button on the steering wheel.
The silence in my SUV makes the space feel like a tomb, and I shiver, uncomfortable with being alone.
Which is why I avoid being alone at any cost.
My eyes flick to where Raiden and Tempest’s booster seats still lock into the back seats. Legos, Hot Wheels, and a few OMG Dolls scatter around their spots, and my face starts to burn.
Yep, I miss them. And I hate that I’m failing them.
Again.
Luckily, the building Wednesday Designs leases has a valet, so I jump out of my Mercedes and stride across the floor.
Melissa meets me at the elevator.
“Okay, Ms.Rivers, I have a few updates,” she says, pressing the “up” button on the elevator panel without looking away from her iPad screen. “Just three points for now.”
“Keystone’s CEO canceled tomorrow’s meeting—he claims he has COVID, but LinkedIn says he’s at a golf retreat,” she says as we walk into the elevator.
“What?” I snap, frowning. “This is the third time he’s cancelled.” Anger presses against my chest as we ascend to the ninth floor.
“I know,” Melissa says, pulling her phone from her back pocket. “That’s why I’ve got you set up to meet him at tomorrow’s gala,” she says distractedly.
I smile.
“Excellent, Melissa.” Her eyes snap up at that, a genuine smile crossing her face.
Damn. When was the last time I gave her any recognition for her hard work? I’ve got to do better.
I take a centering breath as we move from the fourth to the fifth floor.
“What are the other two action items?” I add, facing her and giving her my attention.
“Uh,” she says, a confused look crossing her face before she collects herself.
“Zane and the legal department are down at the Keystone offices as we speak, which…leads to the third thing.” The way she grimaces lets me know I’m not gonna like what she tells me next.
“What is it?” I grind out.
“There’s…another bid on Keystone, one brought in by Kenyon Braxton. It’s one of his college buddies.”
I blink at her, and it takes until the elevator doors slide open for me to digest what the hell she’s just said to me.
“The CEO brought in another deal? Provide more details, please,” I say, walking out of the elevator when the doors start to close.
The glass doors separating Wednesday Designs from the elevator landing are within reach, but I stop Melissa before she can open them.
She blows out a breath.
“They haven’t reached out to us to tell us this, but I…have it on good authority that this is happening. I looked into it myself,” she says, spinning the iPad around for me to see. I grab it and scroll through the reports marked CONFIDENTIAL at the top.
I shake my head, hoping to shake off the confusion.
“Wait. How did you get these?” I ask, but Melissa quickly shrugs it off.
“Don’t worry about that,” she rushes. “What’s important is there was an unofficial bid put in two days ago. That’s why the meetings and the other reports we’ve requested have been delayed.”
Sweat blooms on my spine, and I force myself to keep standing, rather than collapsing into a puddle, like I want to.
“They have half a billion of my money in their bank accounts. They think they can fuck around now?” I seethe, feeling overheated and slightly dizzy.
Get it together, Shae.
Melissa’s phone beeps, and she looks at that screen again.
“Fuck,” she grumbles, and I know she must be particularly upset, because she rarely curses, much less drops an F-bomb.
“What happened?” I ask, pressing the skin between my eyebrows.
“Zane,” she says with a sigh.
Pulling off my blazer, I say, “Let me guess. He couldn’t make any headway?”
Because, of course not.
“No,” Melissa grinds out. “The CEO refused to see them.” Melissa holds her hand out for her iPad, and I pass it over.
Balancing the tablet and her phone, she says, “I’ll figure this out, Ms.Rivers. I promise I’ll find a solution.”
And as she squares her shoulders, I know she will go to the ends of the Earth to find a way to the other side of this.
“No,” I say, my voice calm. “The CEO will be at the gala tomorrow. Will the COO?”
A slick smile crosses Melissa’s face.
“Yes. As well as the CFO and their head lawyer,” she replies.
Perfect. They think they can fuck around and ghost me on this deal? They’ve got a rude as fuck wakeup call coming their way tomorrow night.
“Good,” I say, finally opening the door.
“Good afternoon, Ms.Rivers! We’re so happy to style you for tomorrow’s event. I’ve sourced ten outfits I believe will look stunning on you.” She points toward the rack of elegant formal dresses.
I smirk and take the glass of water that one of the assistants hands me. Fingering through the options, I say, “All black?”
The head designer gawks at me.
“It was…this is your preference for events like this, right?”
She’s not wrong.
But then I think of the game Keystone’s playing, this new competitor for the bank, and why this is all happening now when I’m supposed to be far away from here with my babies in my arms.
“No.I want to wear red. The bloodiest you have,” I reply. To punctuate the demand, I offer a determined smile.