Page 67 of The Billionaires' Prize

“Amelia said you were in the Hamptons?” She takes a step back, waving her hand toward the chairs across from her desk.

My trip is public knowledge thanks to my lunch with Ford, so I nod. “I was.”

“With Ford.”

Do I detect a hint of hurt there?

“Yes.”

She circles the monstrous desk and perches in her chair.

There’s a knock at the door, and her assistant breezes in, handing her a small stack of memos before retreating.

“Excuse me a moment.” Mother puts her glasses back on, skims the slips of paper, and then sets them aside.

I’m used to the interruptions. The attention of a CEO is precious, and she’s been dedicated to the company longer than she’s been a mother. This is why I made a promise to myself a long time ago that if I ever have children, they come before work. I never wanted to dominate my mother’s life. But it would have been nice to feel like I was part of it. Not just a chess piece on a board or an accessory to show off to her friends.

“Have a seat,” she says.

I resist the urge to ask if this meeting will take long. My schedule isn’t empty, which I’m sure she knows. Just like she knows I won’t blow her off when she’s acting as my boss.

Steeling myself, I sit. Back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folding in my lap. Just like she taught me.

Thank goodness this is one of my longer skirts. Still, a thrill runs through me. I can’t imagine my straight-laced, tightly wound mother ever doing something so scandalous as not wearing underwear in public. She probably sleeps in a bra.

“I hope you had a good time.” She gives one of her fake smiles, but there’s a hint of jealousy in her voice. Or maybe it’s derision.

“What can I do for you, Mother?”

“Do? Nothing. Darling, I just wanted to see you with my own eyes and make sure you’re okay. You sounded very. . . stressed on the phone.”

Stressed.

What she won’t say is I sounded firm and tired of her bull poop. She could give any public relations firm a run for their money with the way she spins things.

“I’m fine,” I say again because the less you say to someone like her, the less that can be used against you later.

“You said.”

I sit and wait.

Finally, she glances over at the date book on her desk. “While you’re here, I was thinking we could sync our schedules.”

The ball of dread in my throat slides down, landing heavily in my stomach. I take a deep breath and hold it.

Play the game, Katherine. Keep playing the game.

“Sure.” I give her a tight-lipped smile. “I didn’t bring mine?—”

“I’ll email you. Once you get past these”—she waves a hand as if she’s shooing away a pesky fly—“auction dates, there are a couple of events you’ll need to attend.”

“Of course.”

Need to attend.I mentally roll my eyes. What, like the world will melt down if I don’t?

Play the game. Get your inheritance.Another deep breath.

“We should set up a time to go over my trust, as well,” I say. “Just so I can make sure I have my Ts crossed.”

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