Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 126154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Back and forth all Sunday afternoon, grilling me on why I’m requiring a settlement figure.
I give him nothing. I tell him to quote me a figure and mind his fucking business.
His one fucking million is a joke, but I wire the funds anyway, just to keep this fucking easy.
After all, Amy will end up with most of it.
I’m calm as I head into the office on Monday morning. My resolve is steely and my nerves are cold as ice.
I prepare my official resignation for the board and begin assigning my clients to capable colleagues.
I need to keep this under the radar until it’s too late. Until it’s too late for my father to action any fucking comeback before I’m out of here with Amy in tow.
I’ve no time for him when he charges into my office. There’s not even a fucking board meeting on today and I tell him so.
His eyes are like pinpricks as they feast on mine, and they remind me just how much I hate him. How desperate I am to spend the rest of my life as far away from the seedy cunt as possible.
He slams a file onto my desk and jabs a finger in my direction.
“I knew there was something going on with you, boy.” He laughs a terrible laugh. “I should’ve guessed it would be a pissing woman. Sweet tight cunt is to blame for most of men’s problems. Don’t I fucking know it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, old man?” I sneer.
“Claude told me all about her.” He laughs and my blood runs cold. “I should’ve guessed it. Half a million for a piece of fine virgin snatch and it sends you all fucking doolally.” He shakes his head. “Now you’re after a settlement agreement for that same fucking pussy? Willing to pay a whole fucking mill for it?”
“Stay out of it,” I snap. “It’s none of your fucking business.”
“Oh but it is,” he snarls. “Because she’s addled your fucking brain, boy. The woman’s playing you for a silly fucking fool.”
“You know nothing about it,” I tell him, “and you definitely know nothing about her. Just get the fuck out of here.”
“Amy Leigh Randall?” he asks, and my breath hitches. “Twenty-one years old, perfect bloodwork, lives in EC1 with her lovely parents and two delightful younger siblings, yes?”
I don’t say a word as he flips open the file. He slams a photo of some random woman down in front of me.
“This is Amy Leigh Randall,” he hisses.
I stare at the stranger on the passport copy. “What the fuck–” I begin but he slams down another.
And there’s my Amy. Her hair is mousy, as it was on the passport I snooped at in her bag. Her smile is bright and so are her eyes, and she looks so young. So sweet.
“That’s Amy,” I hiss to my father, “as you well fucking know.”
He shakes his head, and he’s victorious, just as he is in the courtroom. “No,” he says, and jabs a finger at my beautiful girl. “That’s Melissa Martin. Your fucking cleaner.” Oh how he laughs. He laughs as my poor spinning brain picks up the pieces.
I stare dumb and it makes him laugh harder.
“Oh good God, boy! Wise up, she fucking played you!”
I can’t even think. I can’t. I stare at that fucking photo and my hands are shaking. “You’re wrong,” I say. “This is fucking ridiculous.”
“Yes it is!” he snaps. “You’re fucking ridiculous, boy. You’ve been played by a fucking cleaner. By hired fucking help! I can’t believe you paid half a fucking million for that, she’d have done it for minimum wage.” He laughs again.
My heart is pounding in my temples as the pieces all fall into place.
And the picture is fucking hideous.
It’s so hideous my stomach wants to turn inside out.
But my father keeps the blows coming. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the girl. Mother of Christ, this just gets better.”
“This can’t be right,” I tell him. “You’re a fucking liar. You’ve always been a fucking liar.”
He shakes his head. “No, boy. I’m not. I’ve never fucking lied to you. You lie to your fucking self. That’s the difference between you and I. That’s why I’ll always be the senior in this business until the day I fucking die. Because I have the fucking balls to own my own fucking shadow, but you, you’d rather bleat on in therapy than fulfil your own fucking potential.”
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” I hiss. “And then I’m going to leave this fucking business, and you along with it.”
“I’ve made it easy for you,” he says with a grin. “Melissa Martin is right downstairs for you. Meeting suite sixteen, where you met the wily cow in the first place, I believe.”
Melissa
I hate being here, caged in meeting suite sixteen with its big glass walls in the heart of Alexander’s business domain.