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ChapterThree
Sebastian
Isigh as I exit the office and begin to make my way to the waiting car out front. The school had called again, and this time, it wasn't the sassy art teacher that Callie could not stop talking about. For the first time, I have become truly worried. I look out the window as the car speeds on. I had secured my main office in the heart of Manhattan, which had boded well for my business.
Being an estate billionaire was something I had always dreamed of becoming, and the dream that had seemed so out of reach years ago was now in the palm of my hand. So why do I feel frozen in place? Like the world is happening around me and the only thing I can do is blink and watch it all take place?
After Charlotte's death, happiness had constantly eluded me. It wasn't difficult to find warmth and reprieve in the arms of a sensuous woman. But that gratification was always so temporary, so fleeting that it ended up making me feel even more alone the moment I rolled away from them.
I had stopped seeing the need for fucking women. It didn't bring me the kind of satisfaction that indulging in Charlotte's body had. I don't think anything else can give me that satisfaction at this point. Even with everything I've accumulated and the name I've made for myself.
When I look up again, my driver, Robert, is sliding through the gates of Callie's school. The moment I step out of my Lamborghini, I find the principal at the door, waiting with repressed energy and eyes a little wild with excitement. As soon as Robert rounds the car and pulls the door open, the principal begins to move toward me.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Vaughn.”
“Mr. Beatles.” I nod in greeting. “What is going on with my daughter?” I ask, not idling around but moving purposefully through the double doors and down to where I know the old man's office is.
“Oh, that's exactly why I was out here. I want to assure you that we have the situation under complete control.”
“It doesn't look like you do. Otherwise why are you calling me twice a week? Are those you employ that incompetent? If so, have you ever heard of the word fire?"
“Mr. Vaughn, I ah—"
“If I am continually called out of work like this, when do I get the time to get work done?”
The principal chuckles nervously as he practically jogs after me to keep up with my long strides.
“This is not something that happens often, Mr. Vaughn, and I promise you it will be completely dealt with.”
“You do that,” I say, turning to regard the man, who had begun to sweat, through the corner of my eyes. “And don't forget that there are other reputable schools in Manhattan as well. I am never without options, and I always know when to begin to consider them.” I say, pausing temporarily to pin him with a lethal glare.
His eyes widen, and he gulps hard.
“I don't think it'll come to that, sir.” The principal says as he shakily pushes the door to his office open and invites me in.
“Where's my daughter?” I demand as I try to make myself comfortable in the uncomfortable chair in front of Mr. Beatle's desk.
The middle-aged man rounds the desk and quickly picks up the well-used telephone, pressing it against his ear. He speaks quickly into it and hangs up. He flashes an apologetic smile toward me as he says, “They will be here in a minute.”
I keep my gaze on the principal, who looks wildly around like he is desperately trying to find something to talk about. A minute later, a knock sounds on the door and it’s pushed open. Initially I don't turn around, but the subtle scent of feminine perfume greets me, causing my skin to prickle with instant awareness.
“Mr. Beatles.” A soft feminine voice greets. The scent is stronger now as the woman comes to stand beside my chair.
“Daddy!” comes Callie's voice. This time, I do turn and quickly hold my arms open for my little girl who runs into them. I don't care that her head against the collar of my shirt might wrinkle it or the last traces of tears on her face could ruin it. I am more concerned about why she has been crying in the first place.
I look up at the woman who still stands silently beside me. It is the art teacher, Miss Sullivan. When our eyes meet, I am shocked to find hers filled with curiosity and mild puzzlement. I momentarily wonder what it is she could be trying to figure out. But I don't ask; instead, I turn to the principal and ask, “Why the hell was she crying?”
“She had a meltdown.” The woman beside me answers.
“Meltdown?” I question confusedly. This time, that curiosity is back in her eyes, laced with mild contempt, like she is already judging me. “What —in God's name are you talking about?”
“I think what Miss Donovan is trying to say is that Callie had a little meltdown—"
“It wasn't little.” She cuts in and looking regretful, glances at Callie, who is looking between us like we are clowns offering her the best entertainment.
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Paislee
