Total pages in book: 216
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
I turn around and speak to the wall, carefully enunciating every word. “Daddy dearest didn’t think a girl was good enough to work at his precious investment brokerage firm. So guess what? I never stepped one foot on that property or touched a single file on any of his computers.”
“There’s no trap, Ms. Van Bauer,” Mr. Owens says calmly. “And there’s no need to raise your voice. I’m happy to prove my identity, though at this time I cannot reveal the name of the party I represent.”
I turn back around to him. And he really doesn’t look like he’s joking. In fact, this guy looks so stoic and serious, I’m not sure he’s ever laughed at a joke in his life.
“Here are my credentials.” He produces some papers from his inner jacket pocket and hands them to me. “Feel free to Google me, as they say.”
I check out the fancy, embossed watermarked papers. They bear both his name, Francis Roger Owens III, and the company name, Owens, Jenkins, and Rosenberg Trust.
I take his suggestion and pull out my phone to look him up. A few taps later and it becomes clear that Owens, Jenkins, and Rosenberg Trust is one of the top New York wealth management firms. When I search images, I see the man in front of me standing at the Met Gala with half of New York’s elite. There’s a picture of him with Mark Zuckerberg. And one with the actor from that famous zombie show.
I look up from the phone, my mouth going dry. “What exactly is it you’re proposing?” And why is such an obviously powerful man coming to the daughter of an infamous investment broker?
He smiles. It’s the smile of a man who knows he’s about to close a deal. Not kind or unkind, just the lift of both sides of his mouth and the glint in his eyes that say whatever deal he’s about to offer, I’m in no position to say no.
“It’s a small thing, really, when you compare it to saving the rest of your father’s life. He had you when he was so young. He’s only forty-nine years old. One hopes he has equally as many years left to live.” Mr. Owens leans forward. “You can make all those years a gift to him. He can live a life of luxury instead of enduring God knows what in a super-max prison facility.”
Oh shit. Why is he still pitching? It’s not good when someone sells and sells the pitch without talking costs.
“Bottom line,” I say, cutting him off when he looks like he’s going to keep spouting BS about what a wonderful life Dad’s going to magically have without paying any consequences for destroying the lives of all those people.
Mr. Owens smiles again. “All my client is asking for is what could be as little as a year of your life. A year of your life to give your father the rest of his.”
“Doing what?” I demand, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.
Mr. Owens drops the smile and pulls a contract out of his briefcase. He slides it across the desk to me. “My client needs an heir. You’ve been vetted as an acceptable candidate. You will stay at his residence and sleep with him until you come to be with child, then remain until you give birth. Then both you and your father are completely free of debt. In fact, you’ll be well compensated for your time. And the federal government will never be able to touch your father for the rest of his natural life.”
What the—
Sleep with?
Give birth?
He can’t be fucking serious.
He gives me that let’s-close-a-deal smile again, then pulls a pen out of his briefcase and holds it out across the table for me. “If you’ll just sign here and here,” he indicates two places on a long contract, “then we can get started.”
Two
I stand up as tall as my 5’6 frame will allow—well, 5’8 with my killer two-inch heels—and stare Mr. Owens down with every bit of haughty contempt bred into me by three generations of wealth and privilege. “Get the hell out of my office.”
“I’ll just leave this with you while you think it over. Here’s my number.” He produces a card, also from his inner coat pocket, and lays it on the contract. “But do call soon. My client is a man of…” he pauses as if looking for the perfect word, “peculiar habits. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
I scoff in outrage and sweep both the contract and card into the trash beside my desk. Because while there’s all that WASP breeding in my DNA, there’s also my mother’s Latina blood in me. “Well, you can tell your client to go stuff it because I’m not a prostitute or baby mama or whatever the hell you think—” I break off, shuddering at the thought of all of it. Having sex? With some disgusting stranger?