It’s a lie.
Everything we felt. I didn’t want to see. I needed something real. Why am I surprised? My whole life is a lie. One stacked on another. It’s all as precarious as a house of cards, and Sterling Ford is a hurricane. I was never going to survive him.
I went to Sterling for shelter after my brother, Malcolm, pulled the rug out from under me again. I took a job as an editor at Bluebird—another thing I lost in the last twenty-four hours. Malcolm made sure of that. He betrayed me before I could even fill out my tax information. I can only imagine what Trish, Bluebird’s managing editor, thinks of me now. Not that she’ll ever be honest with me. I’m the boss. The owner. It’s so like my father to leave me the one thing I always wanted—a job working with books—just to remind me that I’ll never be free of him. One last demonstration of power from beyond the grave.
Because I didn’t ‘earn’ it. It’s not mine. It’s just another hand-out. I never earned his respect or admiration while he was alive. I never had what it takes. Giving me the publishing house was a pity inheritance, which is the most scathing character critique Angus MacLaine could give. In his opinion, pity was for the weak-minded and the weak-spirited. There wasn’t a benevolent bone in my father’s body. Compassion was for suckers. Leaving me Bluebird was one last dig. One last demonstration of his disappointment.
Not that he’d left us with an empire. The MacLaine dynasty is little more than a crumbling ruin now. That’s what he’s left all of us: crumbs.
Minor stakes in the company.
A few newspapers he didn’t sell off before his death.
A name that opens doors but can’t sign the checks.
A money pit of a house.
My mother’s car and…
An apartment at the Eaton.
It’s another pittance, another reminder I’m still dependent on him.
But I’m not homeless. I just have to swallow my pride and take another bit of his ill-willed charity. I’m trading one deal with the devil for another. Who am I kidding? I sold myself a long time ago. There’s nothing left to break. No heart. No soul. No will. The best I can do is find a safe place to pick up the pieces and figure out who I am now.
Daddy might have thought I didn’t have it in me. He might have believed that I was nothing but a disappointment. But he’s dead, and I have nothing left to prove to him. I’m not the property of the MacLaine family name. No one owns me. Daddy didn’t. Malcolm doesn’t.
And Sterling Ford? He sure as hell never will.
Number six-fourteen occupies a quarter of the top floor of the Eaton. I’ve been there once before. My mother brought me for a slumber party. I didn’t know we owned it until it was given to me during the reading of my father’s will. Arriving at the Eaton, I do my best to arrange my ruined dress, along with my dignity, into some semblance of propriety. I’m not sure either passes muster.
A giggling woman nearly steps into the revolving door compartment before I can exit. She’s distracted by the man she’s with. He pulls her out of the way and smiles apologetically. “Excuse us.”
“Oops!” she adds. I can’t tell if she’s drunk or just intoxicated with him.
I force myself to nod but can’t make myself return the smile. Stepping into the lobby, I discover it full of happy couples holding hands, whispering to one another—one pair is even touring the space with a wedding coordinator. I suddenly feel like I’m gagging on my own silver spoon. This is supposed to be my life. Dinner at a five star restaurant, drinks in the bar, small talk with the other elite members of Tennessee society—and a sexy, successful man at my side paying for it all. It’s what I’m supposed to want. I never have—until now.
But I’ll never be able to settle for this lie of a life. Not after tasting real life. Or, at least, what I thought was real at the time.
I make my way to the concierge desk, unsure exactly how this works, but desperate to get away from all the happy couples. I hadn’t been given a key or anything of the sort. Several of my friends’s families owned apartments in hotels in New York or London or Paris, the benefit being that at a hotel there was always someone available for maintenance and security. It would always be clean when it was time for an impromptu visit. Why settle for a housekeeper when you could have a five star staff at your disposal?
The concierge doesn’t bother to look up when I approach. He’s a few years older than me and a few inches shorter, which leaves me staring at a thinning patch of hair as his attention remains on the computer screen. He’s probably planning someone’s dinner reservation with their mistress. “May I help you?”
Still no eye contact. I take a deep breath and speak directly to his bald spot. “I hope so. I’m Adair MacLaine, and I—”
His head whips up at the mention of my name. “Ms. MacLaine! My apologies!”
“It’s okay, Geoff,” I read the name engraved on the polished brass pin on his jacket. Judging from his reaction at the mention of the MacLaine name, he expects me to throw a tantrum. I dismiss the innocent snub because I don’t have the energy to be offended, and because I’m tired of living up to my family’s reputation—good and bad. “My family suite—I recently inherited it…um, I’d like to see it.”
Use it. Live in it. Hide in it. I add the rest silently, unwilling to commit fully to the idea that I’m leaving Windfall behind for good. Too much has happened in the past twenty-four hours. I need to process. I need to be alone.
“Of course, let me get a
