Chapter 28 #2
…because to be honest? What would even be the point?
Dad’s gone, and Gerald already voted for him. He believes in the good Dad did during his career. His beliefs that Dad was a good man who was an upstanding husband and father are so wholesome there almost seems no benefit to change his mind.
Shattering his illusion won’t bring Mom back or undo what Dad did to me.
It’s all in the past.
So I let the lie stand. My final gift to a man who gave me nothing but expensive distractions and emotional neglect.
“He was certainly something,” I say vaguely.
Gerald nods solemnly, completely missing the irony.
We finish up the paperwork—signatures here, initials there, dates and times and all the bureaucratic nonsense that comes with death—and then Gerald packs up his briefcase and offers his condolences one more time before seeing himself out.
I stand alone in the penthouse, surveying the many expensive things Dad accumulated over the years. The art on the walls, the designer furniture, the awards and framed photos documenting his illustrious career.
The freaking grand piano for the Times magazine feature.
All of it is meaningless now. All of it soon up for sale.
But there is one thing from his penthouse that I’m keeping. The only thing in the entire place that doesn’t have a price tag, because it’s so invaluable.
I find the box in the back of the hall closet, tucked behind the old files and documents he’s held onto over the years.
A small smile comes to my face when I see the name jotted across the front:
GLADYS – PERSONAL
Mom’s possessions that Dad held onto for one reason or another. Sentimental items like old photos and scarves that I’ll be holding onto as long as I live.
I tuck the box under my arm and spare one last look around the penthouse.
I could waste more time hating Dad for who he turned out to be. For choosing his career and image over his family.
But that would take way too much energy. More energy than I’m willing to waste on what I can’t change.
So I walk out with my head held high, the same Chantal Renée Banks I’ve always been, but also a little different too.
Wiser. Stronger. More hopeful than ever.
I’m ready to move on and leave the past behind. I’m ready to do me and be happy again.
Once I make it out of The Carlisle’s lobby, a woman in a blazer and jeans approaches with a microphone in hand.
“Miss Banks! Chelsea Warren, WCNY Channel Four News.” She shoves the mic toward my face. “Do you have any comment on your father’s horrific death? Sources say police are investigating possible foul play. Do you know who might be responsible?”
I stare at her for a moment, this vulture in a blazer trying to pick at my family’s corpse for ratings.
Then I smirk and say, “No comment.”
I sidestep her and walk straight to the black town car waiting at the curb, where my newly hired private driver holds the door open. Mom’s box of things sits perched on my lap as I slide into the backseat, and as we pull away from The Carlisle.
I don’t bother looking back. That chapter of my life is closed.
Time to start a new one.
When I make it home to my apartment, the first thing I hear is Lochlan pleading for someone to eat. My brows knit as I wonder if somehow I have company.
“What in the world...”
I follow the sound to the kitchen, where I find a six-foot-two former mob heir crouched on the floor, holding a can of tuna and glaring at my fluffy ragdoll cat as if she’s personally offended him.
“You have to be hungry,” he says. “It’s your lunch time, right? Cats like tuna. This is tuna. Eat up.”
“Lochlan?”
He looks up with guilt written across his face, caught so red-handed it makes me giggle.
“Your fluffy demon won’t eat,” he grumbles moodily. “You said the tuna in the blue can was her favorite.”
“Coco is not a demon. She’s a princess,” I say primly. I set the Gladys box on the counter and crouch down beside him. “And she only eats her tuna out of her porcelain dish from the Tiffany’s dinnerware collection priced at five hundred dollars. The one with the little roses on it.”
Lochlan stares at me, his left brow cocked. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Callahan, baby, I don’t kid about Coco. She’s a very particular little lady.”
“She’s not the only one.”
I fight the smile trying to take shape on my lips. “The point is, my cat has standards. She doesn’t eat from the can like a peasant.”
Stealing the tuna can from his hands, I go to the cabinet to retrieve Coco’s fancy porcelain dish.
Yes, my cat has her own designated dishware and cabinet in my kitchen.
Don’t judge me.
Coco purrs and then immediately trots over and starts eating, her fluffy white tail swishing contentedly.
Lochlan shakes his head in disbelief. “That animal is more high maintenance than you are.”
“First of all, rude. Second of all, accurate.”
He snorts out a laugh and rises to his feet, his eyes landing on the box I brought in. He picks it up, reading the name written on the side.
“Gladys,” he says perceptively. “Your mother’s things?”
I lean against the counter and watch Coco eat. “Yeah, it’s all I wanted to keep. The executor was nice enough. Kept going on about what a great man my dad was. How devoted he was to his family.”
“Did you correct him?”
“Too much effort,” I reply, shrugging. “Let the public remember him however they want. It doesn’t change what I know.”
Lochlan sets the box down and comes over, his hands finding my waist. “That’s mature of you, brat. Reminds me I could learn a thing or two from you. You good with how it’s ended up?”
It’s such a simple question, but the answer is complicated. I take a moment to actually think about it before responding.
“Pretty much. About as good as can be given the fuckery that went down. I feel… clearer, like I’m finally seeing things for what they are instead of what I always thought they should be.”
“That so?”
“Mhmm.” I turn into his arms that slide the rest of the way around me, his hands at rest on the small of my back, right above my ass.
My heart flutters looking up into his handsome, bearded face.
The face of my captor but also of the man who I captured too, in my own way.
“I spent so long trying to live up to Dad’s expectations.
I was all about image too. The aesthetics of everything.
But that was never really me or what I actually wanted deep down. ”
His eyes read mine as he draws me even flusher against him. “So what does the real Chantal want?”
“Hmmm, let’s see. I want my gallery. That’s still mine, and I’m keeping it.”
“Unsurprised.”
“I want to still be bougie as hell because, let’s be real, that’s never changing.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“But I don’t think I want to live some perfect curated life in the city like an episode of Sex and the City anymore,” I explain, smiling slowly up at him. “I’m thinking I want something different. Something quieter. With someone who actually gets me.”
Amusement flickers in Lochlan’s gaze. He returns my smile with a lopsided grin. “Have anybody in mind?”
“Funny you ask because I do—he’s tall, broad-shouldered, lots of tattoos. He kidnaps poor, innocent gallery owners for fun. Ever heard of him?”
“He sounds familiar,” he grunts as he squeezes my hips.
“I’m thinking I could be more like his… live-in interior consultant. Providing full-time interior decorating consultation. And maybe his brat in the bedroom.”
He lets out a wolfish laugh, the warm and throaty sound so sexy even if rare. “You mean you want to move into the crumbling hellscape with me?”
“I’m thinking we can make it ours. As in, a home for us both.” I press up on my toes to brush my lips against his. “What do you say, Callahan? Ready to renovate a haunted mansion with your favorite spoiled princess?”
“Brat,” he corrects against my mouth, “I thought you’d never ask.”