Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
I swallow hard. "Nothing is wrong. Mr. Ivanovich had to leave midway through the viewing. Sasha’s going to contact his secretary."
"Well," my father says, relief in his voice. "That's not too bad. Things happen and he's a busy man, but more importantly, what impression did you get? Did he seem to like the house? Was he bummed to have to leave without finishing the tour?"
I hate lying to my father and desperately want to tell him the truth, but I just can’t. Crossing my fingers, I give him a version of the truth.
"I got the impression he liked what he was looking at," I reply slowly.
"So why does everyone out there look like someone just died?"
"I guess they expected Sasha to close the deal today, but I was doing the viewing and I couldn’t—"
He frowns. "You were doing the viewing? The plan was for Sasha to lead. What happened? Why didn't she?"
I shrug. "He wanted the viewing done with only one person. Me."
My father raises his eyebrows and looks at me speculatively. "How strange. I would have thought given that they’re both Russian he would have been more comfortable with her. How was he in person? I did a bit of research about him last night.”
“Oh! I wish I had.”
“Well, he comes from Russian nobility, old money. Apparently, his father is an acquaintance with Putin and at some point, he has ties with the Russian Mafia, but to all intents and purposes, his son is legitimate. He made his fortune as a celebrated trader extraordinaire. So young yet so accomplished.” He grins. “I've been seething with envy all night."
"As if," I reply.
“No, really,” he says with a laugh. “The man is quite amazing. What did you think of him?”
"I uh... I’m not sure what to make of him yet. I think I'm going to get back to work. I have some videos that I filmed for some apartments and I'd like to edit those and get them out."
"Sweetheart, about those videos—"
"Not sweetheart," I correct. "We're in the office and we talked about this. You have to stop seeing me as your daughter."
"You have no idea how impossible that is, but okay, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
I give him a look, and he smiles.
"What about the videos?" I ask.
"Instead of spending so much time on them perhaps it’s time for you to go along with the other more experienced salespeople. You need more hours under your belt of closing sales. You've done a good job so far but experience in sales is matchless, and you're getting very little of that if you're focusing mostly on media."
"Media is crucial too, Dad. Otherwise, we can never really grow. Plus, I think it is high time we stopped pretending that I can ever be an accomplished salesperson. Let me do the media for you and let Sasha and the others do the selling, okay?”
He raises his hands. “Sure, honey. No pressure. Just do your best, okay? Doesn't matter what happens, we'll be okay. Let’s talk about it this evening when we go out to celebrate.”
I stare at him unhappily. By not telling the truth I’m just leading him on. Giving him false hope. I feel almost on the verge of tears. "The deal isn't done yet. There's nothing to celebrate. And to be really honest, Dad, I am pretty sure there’s no deal to be had there. It’s a lost cause."
He studies me, the hope replaced by doom, then smiles a forlorn twist of his lips. "You're right. It’s always a bad idea to count your chickens before they are laid, but let’s not lose all hope."
For the rest of the morning, I avoid everyone and pretend to be too busy editing a video to be able to stop and talk. At lunchtime, I go for a walk alone. As I become one with the bustling crowd of people around me, it is impossible to believe that this morning a Russian billionaire had made sleeping with me a condition before he would spend a hundred and twenty million on a house.
But it happened.
An hour later without having had anything to eat, I go back to my desk. There is a black box tied up with a broad cream ribbon. Even the box looks expensive. There is no card attached, but I know instantly it is from him.
“A courier dropped it off,” someone says.
My hands are shaking as I tug at the silky ribbon. I open the box and deep in tissue my hand encloses around something hard and cold. Grasping the thing gently, I pull my hand out and look at it.
A swan. A beautiful exquisitely blown glass swan.
“Wow, that’s gorgeous. Who sent that?” Tessa asks.
“An old friend,” I say and put the swan back into the box. When Tessa turns away I throw the box into the bin next to my desk. Then I pick up my bags and run to the subway as fast as I can. I need to get home for some peace and quiet and, of course, the only sounding board I trust not to be biased in helping me try to figure this out.