Page 1 of Harry

Harry

“That will be all.” I dismiss the boardroom of executives like I own them. It’s the only way to speak to men in my line of work. Some of them balk a little, but one firm look has them taking a sharp inhalation through their noses, jaws clenched, before they turn and leave. I hear the mutterings, but once they see the financial results of my plan, those mutterings will turn into bitter calls of congratulations.

I roll my eyes.

I know what they call me.Ball-breaker Cordez. That’s my nickname, and they’re all dense enough to think I don’t know.

Idiots.

The only thing they have going for them is that they are the best at their jobs. That and the fact they were born with the right genitalia. When will people ever learn that women are not only the fairer sex, but the superior one?

Five years I’ve slogged my arse off for this company, pulling it up from the brink of collapse with my own bare hands. Sometimes I wish I had been born a man, maybe then I’d be taken seriously here…and at home by my father.

He travels the world with his line of work. He runs his business so tightly, I’m still not sure what he does. Just that it’s something to do with nightclubs. But I know for a fact people wouldn’t dare to question him. He always told me that he couldn’t give me a job, because nothing is free in this world and there is no room for nepotism in good business. We all have to work for what we have.

I check my wristwatch. A gift from my father when I graduated with honours. An Audemars Piguet in 18 carat white gold with baguette cut diamonds. I always wear it to work, because money talks louder than accolades when there are more dicks in the room than carpet fibres.

The meeting ran over and it’s now closing in on four in the afternoon.

I resist the urge to push a hand through my hair. The gesture is too much of a tell, and I know I can’t give anything away to the men who steal glances at me through the glass wall of the boardroom. They only need to find one weakness, then they would gang up and tear me apart like a hunt.

Instead, I let out a controlled sigh to try and regulate my bubbling temper.

If dad were here, he would tell me to count to ten. He always knew I was hot headed when it came to people answering me back, not taking me seriously. But he is currently visiting Chicago. Something to do with a wedding, though who is getting married is anyone's guess. It can’t be family, as neither me, my sisters nor my mother were invited.

They are six hours behind there, so it is still morning, and I wonder if I should call him. Mostly I wish he were here so I could talk to him in person. Discuss business with someone who understands. At twenty-seven, I’ve managed to climb the ladder of success, only to find myself isolated and alone at the top.

I push back from the table and stand. Smoothing my hands over my Dior pencil skirt, I drop my eyes to my phone again, my palms itch.

Why do I have such a strong urge to call him?

I gather up my papers and grab my phone just as it begins to vibrate. My sister’s name pops up on the screen with a goofy image of the two of us from last Christmas when we accidentally wore matching ugly holiday sweaters.

“Hey Jack,” I say into my mobile as I tuck it between my ear and my shoulder and begin to push through the board room door–also glass. It opens smoothly and I nod my thanks at Kim, the receptionist here at Benson, Gleeson and Forbes. Imagining “Cordez” up there is the only thing that keeps me going these days.

“Harry,” she says, and immediately I know something isn’t right. She sounds like she has been crying and my gut clenches as my feet stop moving me forward.

“Jack, what is it?” I ask, suddenly unable to keep a grip on the papers in my hands as they flutter to the floor.

“It’s dad. You need to come home.”

***

The gates open automatically for me as I roll up the driveway. Jack’s car is here, along with our baby sister, Brig’s.

And James's.

Why is he here?

I pull up alongside the other cars, wondering why my mother hasn’t demanded they be moved from the front of the house. The Grade II listed building is my mothers pride and joy. She keeps it well maintained and it features regularly in articles. It was once even used for filming in an afternoon murder-mystery film.

The stone looks warm in the afternoon sun as I hurry towards the front door, my heels clicking on the paving slabs beneath me. Usually when visiting my mother, because God knows my father is rarely here, I’m in no hurry to go in, and I can take my time admiring the house. The way the windows glint in the setting sun, or the way the stone has smoothed after decades of rain.

The front door is solid oak, and as I reach it, it is pulled open by the latest maid, Hannah. Her head is bowed and it looks as though she has been crying.

“Hannah,” I say, urging her to look up at me with my voice. But she keeps her head bowed. “What’s going on?”

Jack must hear me, as she appears from the drawing room on the right.

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