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“I don’t know what that means.”
Foster refuses to meet my gaze instead, keeping his eyes focused on a thick folder in front of him. He pushes it across the desk. I pick it up, open the cover, and read the top page. I get the gist of the document from the letterhead and the first sentence. As the owner of the property in New Jersey, Foster is being sued by the state’s environmental agency. The contaminated soil is putting the surrounding community at risk.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as I page through the thick document.
“Exactly.”
“I thought you had the site inspected.”
“The buildings. I had no idea of the soil. It turns out; the Robertsons were allowing the dumping of chemicals in the wooded areas. It’s illegal, and they deny any knowledge.”
“How do you know they allowed it if they deny knowledge?”
Foster finally looks up at me. His eyes are red-rimmed. As he speaks, I catch the scent of whiskey on his breath. “I did some digging. It was all under the table. There isn’t much of a paper trail, but a former employee provided us with memos regarding the contamination.”
“They’re still liable even if they deny having no knowledge, aren’t they?”
“I suppose so. However, I now hold land which needs to be cleaned up before I can develop the site. It could take years before that happens and cost millions, if not billions. Litigation between Black Industries and the state needs to be settled before that happens, as does litigation between the Robertsons and us. It’s a clusterfuck!”
“I’m sorry.”
He leans back in his chair, opens the left drawer of his desk, and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. Unscrewing the top, he drinks straight from the bottle.
I am taken back at the man I’ve come to know over the past year and a half falling apart in front of me, quickly. “Foster, you can’t drink your worries away.”
He takes another slug of the whiskey, wincing slightly as it goes down. “Why not? This could break my company. The cost is tremendous.”
A shiver goes through me as the prospect of Black Industries’ demise. Foster has worked so hard to build what he has, even marrying me to prevent losing it all.
“But the real estate division is just one part of your company,” I try to argue.
He swigs again. “Yes, it is, but there are attorney and court fees and fines that I’m incurring each day the site is not cleaned up, on top of other costs. I’m paying a mortgage and taxes on property that will not give me a return for years at this rate! You don’t understand. All you know is this life I give you. You know nothing about how to build a company.”
Tears prick my eyes. I knew enough about building a company because I was there alongside my brother, who did it from scratch. It might not have been mine, but I toiled in the trenches with him—not literally, but figuratively.
“That’s not fair,” I state. “I know what it’s like to see a business balancing on the edge of ruin. Zane taught me that.”
Foster narrows his eyes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But you have no firsthand experience. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I came back because my family was getting suspicious. Zane saw you at The Wyatt.”
“Ah, yes, I had a lunch meeting with my bloodsucking attorneys, on my dime of course. I thought you would stay away longer. Just when I needed your support, you abandoned me.”
I grit my teeth. “You know why I left,” I hiss. “It’s not working out between us, and I see you’re only getting worse. I’m already looking for my own place. Once I find it, I’ll move out.”
Foster burps and guzzles another long pull of whiskey. “Of course, you will, with my money.”
“Money you gave me to play a role!” I shout. “I didn’t ask you to seek me out.”
He leans forward and points at me, his hand slightly shaking. “But you were more than willing to take the money I offered. How does it feel to be a prostitute?”
My mouth drops open, and my legs weaken. I back away from him, sickened by the thought. “I didn’t prostitute myself. It was a business deal.”
“You fucked me,” Foster continues, rocking in his chair, his voice raspy. “You shared my bed and did things at my request. I paid for your bills. If that’s not prostitution, tell me the definition.”
Unable to stop my sobs, I cry, “We were in love! You loved me!”
“I was acting!” he snaps. “I don’t love you. You have plenty of money. I don’t want you here any longer. Pack your shit and get out. This fucked up deal is over.”
