6. Donovan
DONOVAN
The scrape of a silver, serrated blade against fine bone china echoes through the cavernous dining room of the Swanson mansion.
It is the only sound in the chillingly quiet space. Above the long mahogany table, a massive crystal chandelier casts sharp, fragmented light across the imported silk wallpaper.
The interrogation I leveled at her this morning looped relentlessly in my brain. I gaze at the amber liquid in my crystal tumbler. The aged scotch burns a slow path down my throat, doing nothing to dull the tension pulling tight across my shoulders.
She hadn’t answered. The exhaustion had been radiating off her in waves, but instead of shrinking, her spine had snapped straight. She had gripped her acrylic clipboard, glaring right through me.
“That is none of your business, Donovan,” she had retorted, refusing to yield a single inch before turning and walking away.
But I hadn't seen a husband standing near the ambulance in the pouring rain yesterday. Just her, frantic and alone.
"The preliminary audits from the gala committee are highly troubling, Donovan."
Catherine Swanson sets her silver fork down, wiping the corner of her mouth with a starched linen napkin. Her posture is rigid, her pale eyes focused on me.
"The logistics department flagged several discrepancies in the phase-two invoices submitted by Fleming Botanicals.
" She slides a thin, leather-bound dossier across the polished mahogany.
It stops just shy of my plate. "Excessive billing for imported structural materials.
Premium labor charges for late-night installations.
The woman is treating the Swanson trust like an open vein. "
I set my crystal glass down on the table.
The heavy base clinks sharply against the wood.
"Every line item is legally sound. I ran those invoices through the proprietary auditing algorithm I developed before I took over the trust. My code flagged zero anomalies, Mother.
The line items are mathematically flawless.
Your logistics department is either incompetent or lying. "
"Legally sound does not equal ethical," Catherine counters, her tone sharpening.
"You are blinded by a five-year-old mistake.
She extracted a million dollars from this family once.
She is a gold-digger, Donovan. A woman from her background, given access to this level of capital, will inevitably line her own pockets. "
"If you believe she cannot be trusted with the capital," I say, leaning forward slightly, "why did you hire her?"
Catherine freezes, a micro-expression of panic flashing across her face.
She avoids my gaze, focusing intently on her wine glass.
"She is the premier designer in the city.
The Swanson name requires the best." She takes a slow sip, her pale eyes finally lifting back to mine.
"But do not forget who she is. When you were lying in a hospital bed with a fractured skull, the doctors said you might not wake up.
She didn't hesitate to leave you behind.
She is callous, Donovan. Keep this professional.
I raised you to be smarter than to repeat your own catastrophic mistakes. "
The memory of crushed steel and shattered glass tightens my chest. A phantom ache pulses through the old silver scar on my jaw.
"There is no personal connection. It is strictly work," I reply evenly.
But the defense rips out of my throat anyway, overriding my restraint.
"And Elisa Fleming is the sole proprietor of a firm grossing eight figures annually.
She commands a fleet of commercial vehicles, employs a staff of fifty, and holds contracts with the top luxury venues in the tri-state area.
She built her own company while I was learning how to swallow solid food again.
Question her pricing structure if you want, but do not ever question her competence. "
Catherine stares at me. "You are defending her. After she took the payoff and abandoned you. You are defending the parasite."
The sudden, blinding urge to tear my mother's empire to the ground hums in my veins.
"I am defending the integrity of the vendor I am paying to execute my event." I throw my linen napkin onto the table, abandoning the untouched rare wagyu beef. "Enjoy your steak, mother."
"Stay away from her, Donovan," Catherine warns to my retreating back. "She is a liability."
The heavy oak front doors of the mansion shut behind me with a solid thud. The humid, rain-washed air of the Manhattan evening hits my face, a welcome relief from the stifling quiet of my mother’s house.
I take the keys to the Cullinan myself.
The drive across the bridge to Brooklyn is a blur of neon streaks and wet asphalt. I don't have a valid reason to be here. No site inspection. No inventory audit. The argument with my mother left a bitter, restless edge in my blood, and I just need to lay eyes on her.
I pull the heavy SUV onto the narrow, industrial Brooklyn street. Fleming Botanicals is a massive complex of glass greenhouses and brick warehouses. A single corrugated door at the loading dock remains partially open, spilling a rectangle of warm light onto the wet concrete.
I kill the engine.
Inside, the massive staging area is a chaotic jungle of steel racks and buckets of exotic orchids. Near the front bay, Hector Fleming yells into a cell phone pressed to his ear, his broad shoulders straining under the dark fabric of his t-shirt as he kicks a wooden crate of imported soil.
I stay in the shadows. I move quietly past the loading bay, slipping down the narrow, dimly lit hallway toward the administrative offices in the back.
The door to the primary office is ajar.
A single fluorescent desk lamp cuts through the gloom of the room.
Elisa is alone.
She sits at a massive drafting table buried under printed invoices and supplier catalogs. She isn't wearing the heavy denim and work boots from this morning. She has changed into a soft, oversized gray crewneck sweater. Her dark hair is pulled back into a simple, messy knot at the nape of her neck.
Her head rests heavily on her crossed arms over the paperwork.
She is asleep.
The vulnerability in her quiet, steady breathing makes my chest ache. The lines of her shoulders tense even in sleep. The possessiveness I have spent five years trying to bury flares up, immediate and uninvited.
She is shivering.
The industrial air conditioning vent directly above her desk blasts cold air into the room.
I step into the office. I take off my suit jacket. Slowly, silently, I drape the heavy wool over her shivering frame.
The fabric settles around her neck. She shifts with a soft, broken sigh, leaning into the lingering warmth. The sudden trust in the unconscious movement nearly brings me to my knees.
My gaze drops to the clutter of the desk.
Beside her right elbow, partially tucked under a stack of unpaid freight invoices, sits a piece of heavy cardstock.
It is out of place.
Bright, chaotic streaks of crayon wax coat the edges of the paper, bleeding through the thick material.
I reach out, my fingers brushing the cardstock. I slide it silently out from under the heavy stack of ledgers.
The paper is folded cleanly down the center.
I flip it over.
Uneven, large, wobbly block letters are scrawled across the top in dark green crayon.
To Mommy.
The letters hit my retinas, an undeniable confirmation of the child she protects so fiercely.
Before the crude shapes beneath the letters can fully register in my brain, the heavy wool jacket slips from her shoulder.
Elisa gasps.