Page 3 of Deadly Rival

“Ophelia. Office.” Dad doesn’t bother to wait for an answer before he turns his back and strides toward my office. MY office, yet I follow him there like I’ve been called in to see the principal. My sensible heels click on the marble, and I want to throw the stupid things into the ornamental fountain. But I don’t dare. I’m in enough trouble already.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind me, Dad whirls, all traces of his smile gone. “Do you know who that ugly bitch out there is?”

Even his voice is different, a staccato edge tarnishing the cultured tone. A ghost from growing up in New York City. My nanny, Maida, who pretty much raised me, once let slip after a couple of glasses of wine that he spent thousands of dollars on elocution lessons to lose the accent.

“No idea, Daddy. Who?” I try to match his anger with nonchalance, but it comes out forced and brittle.

“She’s married to Ashton Parker.” At my blank look, he shakes his head. “Parker Pharmaceuticals? One of our biggest clients?”

The name snaps into place. Shit. Double shit. “I’m sorry. I—”

“You didn’t think. You never fucking do.”

My buried anger flares. “She was wrong, though. She was—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter what she was!” I take a half step back as Dad’s roar fills the office. Will the staff be able to hear? Are they gossiping about it right now? “You do understand what you’re doing here, right?”

With painful clarity. Running a “legitimate business” to clean my family’s filthy money.

“Giving some dumb old bitch her money back doesn’t matter. Pissing off a client does.”

I don’t want to look away from his burning gaze, but I do. Coward that I am, I stare at the shiny points of my shoes as his tirade continues. “I know you enjoy playing at being the boss here, but you work for me, Ophelia. Don’t fucking forget it.”

“I know. I know. Sorry.”

I hate the meek quaver in my voice. I hate the relief when I glance up and see the storm has passed and the fury in his eyes is banked. For now. I hate that I knew exactly the right tone to take to pacify him after so many years of practice.

He nods, and his face changes in the eerie way it does, danger sliding away, replaced with an affable mask. “Good. That’s good, sweetie. I’m proud of what you’re doing here, I really am. You just have to keep the interests of the family at the front of your mind.”

Family first. Of course.

He smiles, and most people would find it charming, paired with his handsome face. “Now, the reason I dropped by. We’re going for dinner tonight with the Stormbergs, and I want you to look your best. Wear something pretty. Demure, of course, but pretty. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I don’t have the energy for another argument.

“It’s important. There’s a big contract up for grabs. Harrison will be there too, and we need a united front. Their youngest son is coming.” His eyebrow twitches in a knowing way that makes my skin crawl. “Handsome, by all accounts. Could make a good match for you.”

Gross. Dad’s ideas about dating are Victorian in the extreme. Between him and my brother, Harrison, my love life is dead on arrival. Dad wants to see me married off to some son of a business acquaintance. A perfect marriage for his perfect princess.

My face hurts as I force a smile. “We’ll see.”

“I knew I could count on you. Now, while I’m here, let’s take a look through the books.”

It takes everything I have not to scream as I open my laptop.

***

Two grueling hours later, he finally leaves. Once the door clicks shut, I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the white leather sofa in the corner. This room was the only space I had any control over, and it’s decorated in the simple, clean style I prefer.

The frilly, overdone girliness of the main clinic is a pneumatic drill in my brain.

I grab a beer from the mini fridge in the corner and take a long swallow. Dad doesn’t approve of me drinking beer—unladylike—but I enjoy it after a long day. The cold liquid slides down my throat as I work to piece myself back together.

Dad’s evisceration of my accounts was as brutal as I’d expected. He has a head for figures, and I certainly don’t. In school, I loved biology and hated math. Dad went line by line through my figures, finding every error. Each mistake dragged the corners of his mouth lower.

When he stood to leave, he delivered his final jab. “Christ, Ophelia. Imagine if you’d actually gone to med school. With this many fuck-ups, you’d be in jail with a trail of bodies in your wake.”

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