Page 10 of Due Diligence

But then I remembered that it was always the same with them. Love with caveats. Strings attached. Conditional love. The kind of love that you couldn’t lean on, or trust to catch you when you were falling—when you needed it the most.

I knew better than to believe this, not again.

“Trevor is picking me up after work, but I can call you tonight,” I lied, testing her.

And sure enough, my mother failed miserably when she blurted out, “Don’t tell me you’re back together with that lowlife.”

“See?” I snapped, dropping my leather tote right on the concrete sidewalk into cigarette butts and coffee lids and stale water and whatever the hell else was waiting on New York’s streets. “You’re so full of shit. You haven’t changed at all.”

“Howdare youtalk to me like that? After everything I’ve done for you.” Her harps and honey had evolved into straight harpy at that point. Acid practically radiated out of the phone, drawing out the goosebumps on my neck that prickled when I got angry.

“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t do this again. Don’t youdaremanipulate me by bringing up the fact that you soboldly,sovaliantlyraised your child. The selflessness, mother. The absolutesainthoodyou deserve.”

“I willnotaccept you speaking to me that way. I’m still your mother, Cassandra.”

“Don’t remind me. And I swear, the day I pay you back will be the day I change my phone number and officially cut all ties with you and your scumbag husband.”

“He’s your father!”

I was holding the phone two inches from my ear, but the words rang deafening, a stark reminder that yes—he was still my father, no matter what I did.

“Well, we can all be more than one thing at a time,” I retorted. “This conversation is over. I’m going.”

But it was never that simple with my mother. “You donothang up on me,” she insisted. “I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to help you get your life back together.”

“I am so freaking happy with my new life that you’re going to have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.” I was nearly shouting on the street at this point, but I didn’t care. Let them listen. Let all of New York know that I gave zero fucks about what my parents thought of me. “You have nothing left to offer me. I am so close to being free from you, and the day I send you that last check will be the happiest day of my entire life.”

“Cassandra!”

“Goodbye, mother.” I ended the call, picked up my bag, and shoved open the door to the Libra offices.

Chapter 4: Marcus

“You’re late,” I commented when she walked in.

“Walked” was the wrong word for it. She flung the door to the office open and burst in, her cheeks rosier than normal. She crossed the few steps from the front door to the entrance to the fishbowl, where she paused. Cassie inhaled sharply, but she didn’t counter my remark. I didn’t know how she would. She had no legs to stand on. Instead, she glanced down at her phone, which she was clutching so hard, her hand was practically shaking.

The floral scent of her perfume gently flowed into the room after she closed the door. Without a word, she placed her bag on the floor and removed the light, camel overcoat she was wearing. Today’s picture perfect, catalog-ready outfit was a form fitting turtleneck and a pencil skirt that accentuated both her impeccable posture and lean figure. Not a thread was out of place. In fact, her clothes looked freshly ironed. It was classic Cassie Pierson, and I assumed it was the reason she was late.

“Problem with the subway?” I went on, watching as she silently rolled back her chair and took a seat at the other side of the table. As she scooted in, she shook her blond hair off her shoulders, revealing the impressive diamond studs she wore in her ears.

“No,” she answered curtly. She exhaled through her nose, placed her phone into her bag, and then took out her laptop. Her eyes met mine and her expression relaxed. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“That’s what you said last time,” I reminded her, watching as she focused on her screen and began to type. “And lo and behold.”

Without a word, she pursed her matte red lips and locked her brown eyes on me once more.

“Did you hear me?”

“Marcus, I’m sorry. It was a mistake. It was unprofessional and I’m going to work to earn your trust and restore my credibility. You have my word.”

Her word.

I paused, considering her offer. In any other scenario, I would gracefully accept her apology and I would even check to make sure her tardiness wasn’t due to some personal challenge. It was what any decent person would do, and I liked to think I was a decent guy. More than decent. Hell, I was the youngest honoree on last year’s list of notable New York philanthropists. But this scenario was different. This apology was bullshit and I knew it. It was rehearsed, right out of the corporate conflict resolution handbook. And try as she might to come off as empathetic, Cassie Pierson was anything but.

Ten years ago, this woman nearly broke me. Ten years ago, she was able to knock me off my game and send me off into a bender so bad I ended up vomiting in Alex’s dorm room dresser because I thought it was a toilet. I was so shaken by it, Dr. Jensenrecommended I speed up my departure from Princeton, just to put it all behind me.

So, sorry not sorry—I just wanted to watch her squirm. I wanted her to loathe me. I wanted her brimming with pent up frustration, practically boiling with it. I wanted to watch her fight every natural instinct in her body to lash out at me. And frankly, I was going to enjoy it.

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