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When she finally speaks, Sloane sounds on the verge of flying to Chicago to throttle me.
“I would thank you to remember your place at this company, Ms. Slate. It is not your business what conversations I have with my son. Or when I have them.”
“I just thought you should know—” I start.
She cuts over me. “You should know that Rhett’s interest is as fickle as a cat’s. One day he wants the world, the next he’ll settle for fixing motorcycles all day.” Her tone drops. “One minute he’s head over heels in love with some poor, stupid idiot, the next he’s chasing the next best thing.”
Her words stab directly into my heart and it’s clear they’re meant to. How much does Sloane know? Or does she only suspect, aware of the hold her son has on the women around him. And is she serious, or just trying to make me hurt as my words just hurt her?
“There will be zero mention of this deal to Rhett until after the papers are signed. Am I clear?” she says.
“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper.
“Get it done. And then get back here. I have some new accounts for you to handle. As for my son, I will handle him. Do you understand?”
I nod. Then, remembering she can’t see me, I say, “Of course.”
Sloane hangs up, leaving me shell-shocked. Suddenly feeling slightly dizzy, I collapse onto the bed.
I know I shouldn’t let Sloane’s vicious words infect my mind. And they don’t. Instead they fertilize the seed that’s already been growing there.
I glance at myself in the mirror. Pretty, but nothing special. And then there’s my job. Overwhelming, all-consuming, and helmed by the Wicked Bitch of the East.
It won’t take long for Rhett to find the next best thing. Especially once he finds out that I conspired with his mother behind his back.
I bury my face in my hands and fight the emotion threatening to spill over.
After five minutes or so, I take a deep breath and pull myself together. I can get through this. I go into the bathroom and wash my face until there’s no sign of weakness.
Then I go back into the bedroom. Rhett is propped up on the bed. The corners of his eyes crinkle at the sight of me.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Everything’s great,” I reply.
* * *
The gallery fundraiser. A time-hallowed tradition of the North American Tech Conference.
Every year, on the last night of the conference, the guests gather in the gorgeous glass-domed Grand Ballroom on Navy Pier for champagne, hors d'oeuvres, and a gauntlet of some of the most sought-after pieces of art that will be sold at auction that year.
For most of the ticket-holders, it’s a chance to see some seminal works of art in a beautiful setting as they guzzle alcohol and caviar.
But for the richest members of the conference, the night ends with an auction of the displayed pieces, allowing them to put a price on the priceless and walk away with something to hang on the wall of a summer house somewhere.
A portion of the proceeds go to whatever charity the board has chosen for that year. This year they’re raising money for Reading Is Fundamental, the largest childhood literacy nonprofit in the country.
“It’s a good cause. I’ll give them that,” I say to Rhett. We’re sitting in the back of a limo that’s ferrying us from the hotel to the ballroom.
Rhett looks drop-dead gorgeous in his tuxedo, his bow tie just a smidge off-center, his hair just a tad bit mussed.
A lightening bolt of anxiety rips through me, but I push it down.
“It’s fantastic,” Rhett agrees. “I’ve already cut them a check. I only have one more day of access to my account so might as well put as much of it out there as possible.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. My one shot at keeping Rhett happy when the truth comes out is reminding him that he’ll still have almost everything he had before. He’ll still have his apartment, his motorcycles. And he’ll have freedom, a choice in where his time is spent. His talents were never put to their best use at the bank and certainly would be wasted in a menial job.
Maybe it’ll be enough to sooth his hurt.
