10. Chapter 7 - Hillary
I shot daggers at the man who’d shown up here today; the audacity of my enemy pricked me like a thousand tiny needles under my skin.
Marco Alvarez stared snidely back, a satisfied little smirk on his face. He sat on the plastic chair of the charitable foundation’s auditorium like a king on a throne, though he was worth nothing more than a toddler on a toilet. I turned to face the speaker; a brief reprieve from having to watch his smug, ugly face.
“Thanks to your generous donations today, you’ve given the gift of hope to so many young girls like Layla.”
The founda tion I supported—the one that helped hundreds of women and children escape sexual predators—was hosting their annual Christmas appreciation event. An audience of several dozen attendees—mostly municipal counselors and government representatives, but a handful of wealthy donors who valued the cause—burst into applause. My stomach soured, though, when Marco clapped just as enthusiastically, like he wasn’t single-handedly causing the very problem this organization worked so hard to solve.
I stood and shook hands with many of the donors as the crowd dispersed. Alvarez strode over to me, sticking out his hand for a shake of his own.
“Marco.” I smiled coolly in greeting, steadying myself and appraising him like a viper assessing their next meal. “I wasn’t aware you were a donor.”
“I’m not.” His tone belied none of the malice he was capable of, no doubt to hide his true agenda from the eavesdropping ears all around us. “But what a great cause. Alvarez International intends to make a large donation today. It’s the least we can do.”
Over my dead body.
I would make sure the foundation didn’t take one penny of his blood money. I’d double my donation this year to oust him from that farce of philanthropy.
“How wonderful.” My smile turned from casual cool to bitter ice. “It’s about time you started contributing to this community.”
“Oh, we certainly do a lot for this community,” he said loudly. Then he stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I heard your business partner is in a bit of trouble. Have you found his replacement yet?”
How in the fuck did Alvarez know anything about Aaron? As soon as I considered the question, I knew the answer. Veronica and Vicente would have let Marco in on their little sacrificial lamb plan—how they jumped ship by throwi ng their son to Antonio’s wolf. It would be so satisfying when we burned their empire to the ground and killed three birds with the same stone.
Before I could respond, though, a high-pitched titter interrupted our glare-off.
“Ms. Lane, we are just thrilled to have you here!”
Marco hastily stepped back, apparently satisfied with his mediocre assertion of dominance, and melted into the crowd; the speaker, an enthusiastic middle-aged brunette by the name of Roberta shook my hand so aggressively the ligaments in my wrist groaned their frustration.
I gently removed my hand from her grip and offered a smile instead. “It’s lovely to be here, Roberta. Thank you for all you do.”
I meant it. Roberta and this foundation had provided shelter, education, and new opportunities for thousands of girls in Sequoia and its surrounding states. Girls as young as five years old were swept away from dangerous situations, their legal hearings expedited, and then they were protected within a network of heavily vetted goodhearted people.
“Thank you for all that you’ve done, Miss Lane.” Roberta stepped back, her slight frame wavering like a reed, tears shining in her eyes. “Have you seen the latest numbers? Four hundred girls this year— four hundred!” Hands flew up for emphasis as tears flowed freely down her cheeks, now. “Where would they be without this organization? Who would protect them?”
Heat flushed through my cheeks. The answer to that question had haunted me every day for nine years.
“Thankfully, that’s not our reality.” I swallowed past the painful memories and smiled warmly, nodding toward Marty, who broke the somber moment by handing Roberta an envelope.
“This gift is from a new backer—a business partner of mine. I trust you will put it to good use.”
I s hook her hand once more in goodbye before heading to the long hallway to the back of the room.
Aaron had generously donated a quarter of a million dollars as a part of our partnership agreement—a clause he insisted be included. Even though he had no connection to the cause, he knew it meant something to me.
I was realizing—uncomfortably so—how much I meant to the man I’d called a friend since we were children. Many times he’d handed his feelings to me on a platter through his actions, not his words, and I was too stubborn to taste them.
They now felt pungent on my tongue, the palatable flavor laced with bitter regret. The opportunity to have a person in my court—one who’d give me the world if I’d let him—was in reach, yet the damaged part of me kept pushing him away.
I didn’t want him to go away.
I needed to properly thank him once he was safely holed up at the Palace, out of Antonio’s sights.
I’d wanted to whisk him away from Club 7 immediately, but he’d reasoned with me to give him one more day of “cleaning up.” Whatever that entailed. As much as I didn’t want to leave him to his own devices while he stood at the very center of Antonio’s bullseye, I had important obligations to attend; I had to trust that he could hold his own for just twenty-four hours longer.
Kellan’s list had a particularly interesting name on it—one that luck and circumstance of today’s activities brought me directly to them, no additional planning required.
The culprit herself stood a mere ten feet away, chatting animatedly to Marco, a large phony smile plastered to her surgically plastic face as she charmed him. I kept my blood to a roiling simmer, disgusted that her brand of poison had sneaked into the haven Roberta created.
It was very rare that a woman’s name appeared across my desk. While I’d be the first to admit my crusade was primar ily against the depraved men of society, women had the same capacity for evil—it simply came out in different ways.
Sandra Owens, medical director of the foundation, was abusing her position of power, delivering young children directly back into the hands of new abusers. Now that I saw the two of them together, it was such an obvious connection; I don’t know how I missed it in her background check.
Lauchlan had generously provided one of his custom micro-GPS tracking devices—the same one he’d used to track me—after I threatened to force-feed him my green smoothies for a week. I planned to fasten one to the inside of her purse and send her coordinates to the team.
She wouldn’t get the opportunity to go back to her daily routine, sans genitals, after a run-in with me—not when she continued to work with the vulnerable.
I hadn’t yet decided what to do with her. I could admit I didn’t like the thought of killing another woman—but genital mutilation wasn’t the answer either. Women had experienced enough of that in our history.
At her closed office door, I paused. My window was brief at best. Giving the handle an experimental wiggle, I pushed inward with enough pressure on the knob to unlock the cheap latch.
The part of the building where the kids were cared could rival The Truman Show —every angle and crevice of the facility was captured via closed circuit camera. This section didn’t have nearly the same features. I’d use it to my advantage today, but would wire the funds to Roberta to up their office security immediately after I finished my task.
On quick feet, I located Sandra’s purse—a Prada bag—behind her desk. The tracker was attached to a small square of blot paper in my jacket pocket—trust Lauchlan to make state-of-the-art tracking technology look like an LSD drop—and carefully removed its sticky backing to place it directly on the silk fabric lining closer to the bottom.
I c losed the door softly behind me and confidently strode back down the hallway to the dispersing crowd. Marty waved me down from the entrance, ready to escort us to our next meeting.
Whether it was justice by night, or business by day, time stood for no man—or woman.
“Let’s take a detour,” I suggested to Marty as we stepped out of our final meeting of the afternoon into the chilled December air. “I have a small stop I’d like to make.”
Marty eyed me, frosted gray eyes twinkling knowingly against the dull palette of grayer sky. “Kellan again?” he teased, opening the car door for me before Joey could get the chance. Closing the door behind me, he got in on the other side.
“No, not Kellan again,” I huffed in annoyance, buckling my seat belt and nodding at Joey to drive. “But someone equally exhausting.” I sunk back into the buttery leather of the headrest and closed my eyes. I opened one and peered over to see him staring at me expectantly.
“My father.” My lips twitched down in a grimace. “I’ve been summoned again, and I’d like to get it over with. If you’re with me, I can make sure it’s a quick visit.”
Marty nodded and faced forward, scrolling his phone. I peered out the window at the mountainous landscape, my mind too scattered to properly enjoy the view.
I’d denied Daddy’s request for leave last time, under the guise of not wanting to request a ridiculous favor from Kellan, but mostly, I’d done so out of pure spite. I’d lied and told him that Kellan wouldn’t grant it. Georgio Carlos had been my father’s best friend, and his brother, the one who’d put a bullet into his brain, wasn’t likely to grant him a pass, anyway. It wasn’t worth the trade, if he’d be willing to trade at all.
Nat urally, Camden directed the fury over the very bed he’d made himself at me. I’d ignored it for as long as I could.
“Would you like me to come in with you?” Marty asked as Joey parked in the ornate circular driveway at the front entrance to the family grand manor.
“Actually… yes.” I dipped my head in thanks before abandoning my warm vehicle for the frigid air of my father’s castle.
I strode into the home without knocking and ran right into the suited penguin that was Alaric.
“Miss Lane.” He sniffed the air as if I carried a foul smell. “I must insist you ring the doorbell when you arrive, I—”
“I won’t be ringing the doorbell to my home, Alaric.” I arched a single challenging eyebrow in his direction, then beckoned Marty to follow me through the house, ignoring the dignified ‘hmmmf’ the stuffy butler tossed in my direction.
Making my way to Daddy’s study, I noticed many of the paintings I’d hung were missing—rectangle shadows of dust collecting in their places.
Marty trailed a few feet behind me, his brows raising at the elaborate trim details and ornate light fixtures dotting the main hall. Likely, he was surprised I’d opted to spend money on Daddy, given the circumstances.
It was sheer familial guilt, through and through. Even I wasn’t immune to the power of a narcissist.
I found the man in question seated on the leather sofa in his study as expected, but I wasn’t expecting the woman sidled up next to him.
“Marcie?”
What was Marcie Davidson doing here?
“Hello, Hillary!” The blond, blue-eyed woman in her fifties beamed up at me like we were old friends. “So nice to see you again!”
I h adn’t seen Marcie in years; she and her husband were in the tech sphere in Carlisle for years, so she’d attended many of the same galas. She’d also had a fling with Winter’s father before he was sentenced to prison, but we’d had no personal connection otherwise.
I scanned the scene—Marcie comfortably nestled into the seat, her knees resting against Daddy’s thighs, his hand resting on her calf—the cozy picture of a relationship.
“Why am I being summoned again?” I asked brusquely, more irritated than I probably should allow him to see by this sudden revelation.
“I wanted to know your Christmas plans.”
Daddy’s statement was simple, but the expectation in his eyes was not. Despite my reservations, I’d spent Christmas Day with him every year since his house arrest; a painful twelve hours of time-honored traditions, none of which carried any meaning, pretending our family valued our blooded bond. I’d decided months ago I wouldn’t be keeping up the charade this year, and I’d told him so.
Before I could respond, Marcie jumped in.
“This isn’t the way I would have wanted you to find out, but your father and I have been seeing each other for a few months now, and I was hoping you’d consider spending Christmas with me and my son this year.”
An incredulous snort erupted before I could stifle it.
“I’m sorry… excuse me?”
Her sunny smile faltered as the pure hatred for my father bled through my normally controlled mask of indifference.
Narcissists truly thought the world revolved around them and every person in their orbit was to bend to their will. Daddy’s audacity to think that he could control my actions through Marcie via some ‘family dinner’ gimmick would have been hilarious—if it wasn’t so revolting.
In all my thirty-one years, Daddy had never spoken of Helen Lane. Every shred of information I had about her was from m y own research—the desperation of a little girl looking to connect with another woman. He only ever mentioned my mother when he wanted to control me.
When ‘my mother’ would have been disappointed by my actions. When ‘my mother’ would have wanted me to take on a particular client or business deal. He used my mother’s memory—the memory of a woman I didn’t have—as a weapon wielded whenever he wanted me to do something I wasn’t willing to do, instead of telling me she would have been proud, that she had wanted me.
I hadn’t recognized the tactic until I was well into my twenties, and now that I refused to bend to the thinly veiled pretense of disappointing her, he was using another woman to bend my will.
Pathetic.
His days of veiled control behind closed curtains were ending; he would soon bow at my feet and bend to my will, before my gravity crushed him like the meaningless pest he was.
I heard Marty leave quietly through the open study door; I would be close behind.
“Marcie, if you’re seeing my father, you should know that there is no love here.” I waved in the empty space that felt so unbearably heavy between us. “I won’t be spending Christmas Day with him, let alone a woman I really don’t know and her offspring. I’d say it’s not you, it’s me, but it’s definitely you.” I glowered at my father. “And him.”
“Hillary, control yourself,” Daddy growled through gritted teeth. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“Your whole life is an embarrassment,” I snapped, gesturing at the surrounding room. “You’re on house arrest in a home your daughter had to buy for you because you lost everything betting on the wrong horse. I’ve done more than enough, and I’m done.”
Turning on my heel, I stalked down the hallway of this house of horrors, and stomped through the snow to the waitin g SUV. Marty already sat buckled up, staring out the window.
I fumed in silence on the ride back into Carlisle.
Fuck that insipid little man. After all these years to dare to pretend he had been a father, rather than a gold-sucking cockroach. He would trade me in for my empire in a second if given the chance, then slit my throat for the reward without a thought. I came by my ruthlessness honestly.
I sent off a message to Sammy, encouraging him to capture our next little lesson as soon as possible. I needed an outlet, and Sandra Owens was the perfect victim.