Chapter 9 Remy
Remy
Iyawned as I put the truck in park at the curb and stepped out onto the pavement.
I had been up for most of the night, going round after round and getting folded like a pocket square.
I winced as I took a couple of steps and smiled immediately at the afterthought.
My legs felt like I had been running a marathon, my hips hurt a bit, and every time I took a step, my pussy was throbbing.
But I had a great night. Aside from being turned every which way but loose, with the weight of that secret off me, I felt more relaxed now more than ever.
When Zo confronted me in the way that he did, I knew I had to come clean to him.
I never wanted him to think that our marriage wasn’t as solid as it actually was.
My husband was literally the GOAT; his position was solidified.
No one could compare to who he was in my life.
There was no way that I should have been giving Karlos this much power over my mind and my marriage from the grave.
He wasn’t able to control me while I was in the Weston Mansion; he certainly shouldn’t be doing it a decade later.
Stepping into the building's lobby, I greeted my assistant, who was on a phone call. That’s one thing I loved about her; she really went the extra mile and worked her ass off. She deserved every dime and more of the six-figure salary I paid her.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” I said to her in a low tone, so I didn’t interrupt her conversation. She gave me a big smile and mouthed “Good morning” to me.
I walked through the office and went to my desk.
It was Monday, which meant I spent most of the day reviewing the numbers for the programs to see how well my Community Outreach Specialists were performing.
My goal for the Remy Rich Foundation was to turn it into the first resource women thought of when they needed the extra push or were ready to get their lives together.
“Knock, knock.” My assistant said just as I was putting on the flats that I kept tucked away in my purse. My legs felt like they had been run over, so today wasn’t the best day for heels.
“Hey girly, what’s up?” I asked as I slipped them on my feet.
“This is your agenda for the day. You didn’t accept any of the invites that I put on your calendar, so I wanted to make sure you had them.” She said.
“Life has been lifing.” I sighed. “But thank you so much, you’re the best,” I said as I took the papers from her and set them on the desk.
“No problem, just let me know if you need me,” she said, then spun on her heels and walked back to the lobby.
I exhaled. I hadn’t checked my notifications or emails in about a week.
Most recently, my days here were spent researching my alias.
Although I had already made up my mind to return to Louisiana to meet with a judge, I had become obsessed with finding out why Karlos had forged those documents in the first place.
I couldn’t find anything on the name, no bank accounts, properties, nothing. I hired a private investigator to dig. She texted this morning that she’d send me her report and that I should call with any questions.
Her email was the only one that I was looking for when I logged on to my computer. I found it at the top and opened it quickly, leaving the others to fend for themselves until I was in a better headspace.
A knock came at the door as I sifted through the emails, dumbfounded by the lack of results I got. The investigator had found the same information that I had. Virtually nothing. There wasn’t even anything listed on the Remy Weston credit report.
“Come in,” I exhaled.
“Mrs. Richardson, the CEO of Second Chance, is here to meet you,” My assistant said as she stood in the doorway. I nodded and locked my computer screen to host this short meeting.
She extended her hand to guide the person inside the office. In walked a man, he was tall, had a slight limp, and if nothing else, for lack of better words, looked like he had come face to face with death, and it almost won.
I plastered a smile on my face, but inside I was both cringing and heartbroken.
He was in terrible shape. His walk was altered; one of his eyes was grey, signaling blindness; he had a deep gash across his head that extended to his neck.
His neck had a circular dent, which was likely from him being on some sort of breathing machine.
He looked bad. I would like to think I was always sympathetic to people in tragic situations, but he was just really hard to look at.
“Good morning, I’m Remy Richardson. Nice to meet you,” I said as I waited patiently for him to make it over to me and extended my hand for him to shake.
“Douglas Black,” he struggled to say. His voice sounded like sandpaper, and I could tell that just speaking was a huge task for him.
“Mr. Black. My pleasure. Thank you for your interest in partnering with us, and thank you for your generous donation,” I smiled as I motioned for him to have a seat in front of me, and I did the same.
“It’s no issue. I love what you do around here,” He smiled back as he slowly took a seat and brought his leg across his knee to cross them.
The Second Chance CEO has made one of the largest donations, aside from my family and the JMF, since I started this organization.
Of course, we had some major donors. None of them, though, came remotely close to the eight-figure donation they had given.
I received several emails from them. They wanted to partner with us on an event, and I was open to it.
From what I read on their website, their mission is to help survivors of traumatic events and violence.
Now, being in his presence, I could tell that the mission was something personal to Mr. Black.
Surprisingly, we had a decent conversation.
Once you got past his exterior, he was such a nice guy.
He was a bit slow to speak, but once he did, he was very witty.
By the time it ended, we were discussing a partnership, and he had also invited me to a family carnival he was having in the near future.
“Please, email me the details, Mr. Black. I would love for myself and my staff to attend,” I smiled as we stood to shake hands again to end the meeting.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Remy,” he said as he grabbed my hand and then placed the other on top of it. I looked down at it and back at him. Something about his touch made me uneasy. I had shaken hands with many of the other donors and had never reacted that way.
Remy, you’re being immature. I scolded myself mentally.
Thinking that I might need to reevaluate my work if I couldn’t get past his appearance.
He smiled politely and made his way toward the door.
I jogged around my desk and in front of him to open it.
I didn’t want to insult him by asking if he needed me to guide him out, but I wanted to so badly.
I just didn’t know if it would be offensive.
“Take care, Mr. Black,” I said as I opened the door for him, waited until he stepped out, then shut it behind him. Afterward, I walked back to my computer to get my own affairs back in order.
I sighed as I sat, realizing that I should go ahead and address my emails. I went through each of them from oldest to newest and responded to them. Once I was done, my mind drifted back to Douglas Black.
It wasn’t even anything he said; it was the way his presence settled over me and made me uncomfortable. It was heavy, thick, and hard to ignore.
I shook it off and leaned back in my chair. I told myself that my reaction to him was just unprofessional and dramatic. The Mafia had a way of reshaping your senses, making your body react before your brain could catch up. Maybe I was having one of those moments.
I’d sat with hundreds of women who had been victims of crimes with similar scarring and had never had this reaction.
I opened my browser, typed in "Second Chance Foundation," and clicked their site again, this time more slowly, paying attention to details I'd skimmed over when I assumed it was just another organization.
Their homepage had a ton of survivors: gunshot victims, burn victims, domestic violence survivors, trauma survivors. Big bold letters read: Rebuilding Life After the Unthinkable.
I clicked the “About Us” tab.
Second Chance was founded in 2022 after a near-fatal accident left its founder, Douglas Black, with significant injuries. During his lengthy recovery, he vowed to assist others who had experienced life-altering trauma.
I was confused by the year. That would have meant that he had only been running the foundation for three years, which was one less than me.
Yet their impact numbers didn’t match their years of service. They operated like an organization with thirty or forty years of connections and funding. They had centers in four states and partnerships nationwide.
“How?” I mumbled. I wasn’t hating, but I knew that it took decades to build this type of rapport.
I clicked through their programs, and they offered so much. Crisis housing, medical grants, therapy stipends, and vocational training. It was impressive, honestly. That part, I had no issue acknowledging. Their work was legit, and their donations were supported.
I kept reading the bio to see if it would give details of the accident. There was a very brief description. But it never went into depth.
A nearly fatal accident that resulted in severe head trauma, loss of vision in one eye, and significant respiratory complications.
That made sense. His injuries matched the description. By this time, I was in full detective mode. I clicked through the carousel of photos. There was one there before the accident.
He looked younger, fuller, and healthier. But that wasn’t the issue. The photo didn’t really look like him.
People change, especially after an accident, Remy, I told myself.
Recovery changes you. Pain changes you. Some people come out of trauma lighter. Some come out darker.