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She took off her light jacket and hung it on the hook by the door, ignoring his request because it felt too much like relinquishing what little agency she had.
“Why are you here?” she asked instead.
“You’re having my baby. We have things to talk about.”
“Like the fact that you have put me in the impossible position of being either an unfit mother who can only afford a bedsit.” She waved at her humble home. “Or a parasite who regards her child as a meal ticket?”
He looked to the window, profile carved from granite except for the way his cheek ticked.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “Mrs. Bhamra gave me butter chicken when I picked up the case yesterday. There’s lots.”
“No, thank you. Who is she? Your landlady?”
“A friend of Granny’s. I should text her, actually, so she knows I’m back safe.” It was nice to have someone worrying about her again. She texted, then started to scoop the cold chicken and rice into a bowl.
“You don’t have to eat leftovers. I’ll buy you dinner. Where do you want to go?”
“Nowhere. I’m tired.” She set the bowl into the microwave and started it, then finished making the tea. In her mind, she heard Granny gasp in horror that she dropped a pair of teabags straight into cups, but she didn’t actually own a teapot anymore. The one that had been Granny’s had broken—along with her heart—ages ago. She’d never replaced it.
Fliss carried the cups to the table and left them there while she closed her sketchpad and moved it with the pencils to the bed.
“What do you know about me?” Saint asked. “What have you heard or read?”
“Are you asking how much I’ve stalked you online? I didn’t have to. We were mentioned in the same articles. Although I had to quit reading once I got the gist that I’m a penniless, thieving whore. Better that than a philandering billionaire sociopath, I always say.”
He swore under his breath and removed his sunglasses to push a finger and thumb against the inside corners of his eyes.
“Oh, am I supposed to tell you what I’ve read, not what I know?” she asked without heat. “You’re famous for being rich and good-looking. Your father invented a microchip or something. Your mother was a prize model on a game show. That was all before my time, so I don’t know much about either of them. Celebrity trivia isn’t something I follow. Unless it’s fashion related, but even at that I was fifteen when I said to Gran, ‘Did you know Stella McCartney’s father is a famous musician?’ I didn’t know who the Beatles were, only that Stella’s work was fur-free and leather-free. I knew which of her gowns had been on which red carpets. I know your shoes are Ferragamo and your shirt is Tom Ford. Trousers are a private tailor, I’m guessing. Jacket is Gucci, obviously.”
He’d hung it on the chair back, and she could read the tag inside the collar.
“That’s kind of impressive.” He sounded sincere.
“It’s not. All it really tells me is that you’re rich and have decent taste.” The microwave dinged, so she brought her dinner to the table.
“That smells really good.”
“Take this one.”
He shook his head, waving at her to eat as he seated himself across from her, but sat sideways in the chair. He braced his back against the wall and hooked his arm over the railed back of the chair. His other arm rested flat on the table.
“My father came from oil money,” he said. “His father was a mean drunk, and Dad’s three older brothers were cut from the same cloth. Toxic masculinity is their default.” He gave a curl of his lip. “None of them saw any value in my father’s passion for computers. My grandfather forced Dad to take business courses and put him in sales, which was the worst possible place for him. As soon as the old man died, he had his brothers buy him out and used the money to develop his microchip. It was a hit.”
“Are his brothers nicer to him now?”
“They might be if Dad was nicer to them.” Saint played with the handle on his teacup. “Growing up, Dad was the quintessential nerd—before it was cool to be one,” he added dourly. “Once Grayscale took off, he was all business. The cutthroat kind. He moved to California and began eating start-ups. He discovered that having money made him very attractive, too. Name a starlet from the eighties and there’s probably a photo of him with her.”
That actually sounded like a fun game, but Saint kept talking, not giving her a chance to play.
“He met Mom at a party. Like most of his dates at the time, she was quite a bit younger than him, very glamorous looking, but she was straight off the farm in Iowa. Their affair didn’t last long. She came with her own baggage, stuff she never talks about. She told me once she was looking for someone who would make her feel safe. Dad was already in his forties, swimming in money, but he’d never been married or had any long-term relationships. At first, she thought he was shy, but it turns out he’s withdrawn and incapable of meaningful connection. She broke it off, then she found out she was pregnant.”
“Oh?” This story was sounding uncomfortably familiar.
He nodded slowly, not looking at her.
“Dad’s friends—advisors, I should call them. They knew he was still on an upward trajectory and had their own reasons for wanting to protect their stake in that. They told him to pay Mom off. She convinced Dad that I deserved to know my father. What if I was a boy? Wouldn’t I inherit the company? Shouldn’t he raise me to take it over?”
“Sexist. What if you were a girl?”
