Chapter 38 – nate
NATE
“Are you sure you want to do this?” James asks.
“No,” I admit. “But I have to give the tabloids something. Blood for blood, right?”
I turn toward Sharmi, James’s top publicist. He suggested I consult with her before my meetings with the tabloids. She’s five foot nothing and looks like a Disney princess, but after spending a week with her, I’ve seen her prove over and over again that she’s a bulldog.
“Blood for blood, kill for kill,” she says firmly.
I bring my shoulders back. “Then let’s bring him in.”
She signals to an assistant, who scurries to the door and lets in Peter Cutter. He slumps in, his hair damp from the light rain outside.
In person, Cutter gives off total dweeb vibes. He’s arranged his thinning hair into an elaborate combover, and he’s wearing a shiny button-up that might have been in fashion fifteen years ago. You’d never guess that he’s behind some of the nastiest tabloid articles about Cat.
Even though we broke up, the blogs and papers haven’t stopped.
They keep pumping out rumors about how Cat masterminded our meetings, manipulated me into falling for her, and flaunted the pricey gifts she got from her lovesick paramour.
They all cast her as some evil jezebel bent on destroying an innocent man.
Except for the Toronto Tea. They’re fixated on me.
They publish interviews with so-called experts about how men in power abuse their position to make their underlings act against their best interests.
They’ve called for me to be fired, and the comments under the articles all speculate on how deceived poor Cat must feel.
I’m no fan of the Tea, but at least it’s nice to know that there are people out there not seeing Cat as the villain.
The rumors are bad enough. What really disturbs me are the truths. For every piece of complete bullshit, the tabloids seem to have some kernel of truth.
Cat staying in my suite at the Mandarin.
Kyle Ambrose harassing her, and me cutting off our deal right there.
Her spending Thanksgiving with me and the guys.
Pictures of us dining together in Paris.
With everything they’ve published on us, it’s obvious papers have some source inside UPS. Susie has been obsessively vetting everyone in the office, but our publicists were out of ideas on how to make it stop. James suggested a consult with Sharmi, and we’ve come up with a plan to end the coverage.
Cat might not want to hear from me, but I can at least do this much.
“Good to meet you in person, Nathaniel,” Cutter says with a smug smile. “Or do you prefer Nate?”
“No,” I say sharply.
His smile falters, and Sharmi takes charge. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Cutter. I’ll cut to the chase. You’re done writing anything about Caitlin Daniels. If we see any more stories about her, we may be forced to take legal action.”
“I can write about whoever I want,” he scoffs. “You don’t get to tell me what to cover.”
“There is no relationship, professional or personal, between Mr. Walsh and Ms. Daniels. She no longer works at UPS, and they aren’t in contact. You might as well make this easy on yourself, Mr. Cutter. Stories about her might get clicks now, but they’ll dry up soon.”
“And if you’re still protecting her, she obviously means something to Walsh.”
“Mr. Walsh doesn’t want you thinking that printing gossip about any of his employees is acceptable. In the interest of their privacy, he’s willing to offer you a deal.”
“Oh really?” He smirks. “What makes him think I’d want to do that?”
“Because I’ll give you a better story,” I say. “About my father and the secret life he led. I’ll give you all the information if you never print anything about Cat again.”
I expected Cutter to light up with excitement, thrilled to get the story. Instead, he tilts his head and frowns. “Does that mean she’s ending our deal?”
“What deal?” Sharmi asks, kicking me under the table in a silent instruction to let her do the talking.
“The one with Eleanor Walsh.”
It feels like a stone drops in my stomach. What does Mom have to do with this?
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Sharmi says vaguely. She glances over at me, looking for clarification I can’t give her.
“Eleanor doesn’t want us printing the story about the second family,” Cutter says. “She gives us stories about the Walsh family and the UPS inner workings, and we publish those instead. Now Nate wants to work out a new deal?”
Suddenly, the world feels like it’s very far away. Cutter and Sharmi keep speaking, but their voices sound like they’re above water while I dunk my head in a pool.
My mother is the source. She’s been behind every leak at UPS.
She probably has her own PI to tail me when it’s convenient, and I’m sure she’s pressured our employees to pass her information.
She must be the one who was feeding the papers information about Cat.
Does she even care that it hurt me, too?
Does she have any idea how helpless I feel, knowing every paper in the city is assailing the woman I love, and I can’t do anything?
Or does she know and not even care?
The truth is, Mom would rather make me miserable than tarnish Dad’s reputation. Even though he’s gone, leaving me to pay the price for his secrets.
I can’t believe she knew about the other family all along. But why am I surprised? Nothing gets past Eleanor Walsh. She might have even known back when Dad was alive.
But why didn’t she talk to me? Did she even consider how hard it must be for me to keep this secret? For years, I’ve lived in fear of Mom finding out and getting her heart broken. I was so stupid, wasting my time worrying about it.
You can’t break a heart made from stone.
I feel a hand on my shoulder—James, bringing me back to reality. Cutter is standing and gathering his things. The meeting’s over.
“We’ll get back to you soon once we’ve discussed this amongst ourselves,” Sharmi says. She leads the reporter to the door and shuts it firmly behind him.
“What do you want to do, Nate?” James asks. “You still want to make the trade? Your father’s secret family for Cat?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. First, I have to talk to her.”
My Porsche moves smoothly over the familiar roads. I’ve driven them so many times before, I make every turn automatically, barely needing to focus.
Which is good, because all I can think right now is, What the fuck?
I’ve held onto this secret for half my life. It’s tainted my entire relationship with my mother, the guilt I feel whenever we’re in the same room. My father’s secret, the ghost that’s haunted me since I was sixteen.
I had no idea I wasn’t the only one it haunted.
I park the car at the end of Mom’s long driveway. She never moved after Dad died. The house—hell, I might as well call it what it is, the mansion—is way too big for her, but that didn’t matter with the army of servants she hires to keep it tidy. Why not have a half-dozen bedrooms you never use?
Cat’s disapproving voice whispers in my head, Imagine how many people would die to sleep in those rooms.
Slamming the door, I storm up the front door into the house. The door isn’t locked—a sophisticated security feature I had installed myself. Facial recognition on the front cameras means it’ll always open for me, Mom, and the few servants trusted enough to be allowed to use the front door.
I find Mom in the living room, drinking a glass of white wine as she flips through an issue of Vogue. She’s wearing steel blue silk pajamas with an ivory silk robe. Dressed flawlessly as always, for an audience of no one.
“Nathaniel!” she says, closing her magazine. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
“How dare you sell stories about me and Cat?” I growl. “What gives you the right to share my private life with the world? Do you even care what I want?”
Annoyance flickers across her face. “You’re a public figure, Nathaniel. You know that. Interest in your personal life is part of that.”
“It’s not like the papers found out on their own! You ratted me out.”
“You don’t get to be angry with me for the consequences of your own behavior,” she says coolly. “You’re the one who got involved with that girl. I warned both of you that it was a bad idea.”
I clench my fist hard, driving my nails into my palm. I don’t know what else to do with my anger. Because Mom is never going to apologize for selling those stories. To her, Cat isn’t even a person. She’s just a nuisance to get rid of.
But I’m her fucking son. She has to see how she hurt me, too.
It feels like there’s a giant hole in my chest, sucking in all the light and hope.
The one person I should be able to trust implicitly—my own goddamn mother—she sold out the details of my personal life.
All over Toronto, people are talking about how I’m a controlling, abusive jerk who abuses my power. Doesn’t she care?
Doesn’t she feel even a little bit guilty for betraying me?
Judging by her cool, icy gaze, she doesn’t.
I stare into those gray eyes, the same color as my own. It feels like diving into the freezing ocean. Fuck, is that how people feel when I look at them?
I don’t know how I can have any kind of relationship with her after this. If that’s true, I want to get it all out on the table.
”You knew about them. About Dad’s family.” Mom lets out a long sigh.
“Must we discuss this now? It’s late, and I have a tennis lesson in the morning.”
“How long?” I demand. “How long have you known?”
“Your father wasn’t very good at keeping secrets, darling. What does it matter? They’re not part of our lives. You made sure of that.”
“You knew I was paying off Dad’s secret family, and you never said anything?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t see the need for us to talk about it. Between the two of us, we took care of it. I handled the press, and you handled those greedy little vultures. The problem was handled. What more is there to discuss?”
I laugh. It’s all I can do. How could she have been so clueless?
Did it never even occur to her to ask me how I felt about the whole thing?
No, of course not. Eleanor Walsh wouldn’t worry about whether her teenaged son was haunted by his father’s secret shadow family.
It would never occur to her that I might feel pain. Not as long as I acted how she wanted.
No, it’s all about appearances for her.
As long as Dad looked like the perfect father, with the perfect marriage and the perfect son, that’s all that mattered.
We can ignore the rot underneath. Forget about honesty, communication, or trust. As long as our clothes were ironed and our wallets were full, we could still pretend our lives were perfect.
“That’s all in the past now,” she says crisply. “It’s time to move forward, into the next stage for UPS. Now that the whole mess with your assistant is behind us, you can focus on rebuilding the company’s reputation.”
It feels like a punch in the stomach, a fresh reminder that Cat’s done with me. It physically hurts to think that she won’t be in my future. In Mom’s twisted world, we can just sweep aside our heartbreaks like they’re trash.
Mom stands, adjusting the tie on her silk robe so it still accentuates her waist. “I really must go to bed, Nathaniel. We can get lunch next week before the board meeting. We haven’t caught up on business for a few weeks. I’ll call Susie and get something on the books.”
She brushes a kiss against my cheek in a pantomime of affection. No acknowledgment of the shock I know is written all over my face. No apologies. Not even a fucking hug.
I don’t know why I’m even surprised.
Once she’s upstairs, I go out to my car. I get in the driver’s seat, but I don’t turn it on. I just sit there, staring at our never-ending driveway.
For the first time, I really let myself think about the shadow family. Because they weren’t ghosts—they were people. Are people. A woman who loved my father for all his flaws. Children who drew him pictures, who grieved him, who were never fucking acknowledged by him.
Maybe I should have offered them more than money.
Fuck, I have siblings. I don’t even know them.
I never even read the files my PI put together.
Do they want any kind of relationship with me?
I wouldn’t blame me if they resented me—I’m the villain in their story.
The golden son, the one who stepped into their father’s shoes, ruler of his fucking kingdom, while they were written off with a fucking check.
You don’t know that. Maybe they would want to know you.
That’s Cat’s voice in my head. It’s a lifeline, dragging me out of my hopelessness. Fuck, I can imagine what it would feel like if she was sitting next to me. She’d slide her hand in mine and lean her head against my shoulder, whispering reassuring words.
When I assume the worst, she’d encourage me to hope for the best.
She’d understand how much it hurt that Mom lied to me. Cat, who’s always open and honest. Who accepts my flaws, my grumpiness and bossiness, while pushing me to be better—to acknowledge how much I have, and give it to others.
Cat never wanted me to be perfect. She just wanted me to be the best version of myself.
I can’t just sit here and hope she comes back to me.
I don’t do hope. I do terms.
I will win her back.
And I think I know exactly how to do it.