Page 43 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Okay, Lucy, stop analyzing the enigmatic billionaire’s psyche. You have your own dumpster fire to manage.
I should probably just pour myself a giant glass of wine and pretend none of this ever happened.Tempting. Very tempting.
I manage about four hours of restless sleep, dreaming of spreadsheets morphing into angry sharks wearing tiny silver frames. I wake up feeling like I’ve been chewed on by said sharks.
Coffee. I need industrial quantities of coffee.
My phone rings while the coffee machine is gurgling its life saving song.
It’s Carol, Dad’s longtime assistant. “Lucy? I hate to bother you so early, but I thought you should know. Your father… well, he wasn’t feeling quite himself yesterday afternoon. Complained of some chest discomfort. Liam O’Connell insisted on driving him home early.” Liam, our head architect, loyal as they come. Thank god for Liam.
Chest discomfort? My blood turns to ice water. “Carol, what happened? Is he okay? Did he see a doctor?”
“He brushed it off, you know how he is,” Carol sighs. “Said it was just indigestion from the ghastly lunch meeting caterer. But Lucy… he looked pale. Really pale. I tried calling him this morning, just to check in, but it went straight to voicemail.”
I hang up without saying a word, my hands shaking. Forget coffee. Forget everything. Nothing else matters right now.
Adrenaline floods my system. Dad. Oh god. Chest pain. Not answering his phone. This is bad. This is really bad.
I throw on jeans and a sweater, grabbing my keysand purse in a blur. The taxi ride to his Upper East Side apartment feels like an eternity. I promise the driver if he runs all the red lights I’ll pay him double, but the bastard refuses. I frantically try to call him several times. Like Carol said, the calls go straight to voicemail.
We finally reach the building. I impatiently pay my bill and rush into the building.
I let myself into his suite with my key, calling his name. “Dad? Are you here?”
Silence. My heart hammers against my ribs. I check the living room, the study… nothing. Then I hear a faint sound from the kitchen.
I find him sitting at the small breakfast nook table, staring out the window. He’s dressed in his usual green pajamas and silk robe, but he looks… diminished. Smaller. The lines on his face seem deeper, his blue eyes clouded with worry.
He’s holding an empty mug, his hand trembling slightly.
Relief washes over me, so potent it makes my knees weak. He’s okay.
“Dad! Carol called. She said you weren’t feeling well yesterday. Why didn’t you call me? Or answer the phone?”
He looks up, startled, then quickly composes himself. “Lucy. Morning, sweetheart. Just a bit of indigestion, like I told Carol. Nothing to worry about.”
“Indigestion doesn’t make you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” I counter, sitting down opposite him. I reach across the table, covering his hand with mine. It feels cool, fragile. “Dad. What really happened?”
He avoids my eyes, staring down at his empty mug. “It was nothing. A twinge. Probablystress.”
“Did you call Dr. Evans?”
He shakes his head. “No need.”
“Dad!” I try to keep my voice calm, but panic bubbles beneath the surface. “Chest pain isn’t ‘nothing’! You need to get checked out. What if it happens again? What if—”
“What if I die, Lucy?” He finally meets my gaze, his eyes filled with a weariness I’ve never seen before. “What if I leave you with this mess? Is that what you’re worried about?”
The bluntness shocks me into silence. Yes. That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Among other things. Not so much the mess. Thedyingpart.
He sighs, a long, shuddering sound. “Maybe it’s time I stopped pretending.” He looks older than his fifty eight years right now. The weight of the world seems to be sitting squarely on his bespoke pajama clad shoulders. “The company… Lucy, I’ve made mistakes. Big ones.”
“I know, Dad.”
“No, you don’t know the half of it.” He finally confesses everything. The bad investments. The loans that skirted regulations, using assets as collateral in ways that bordered on reckless. He leveraged everything, trying to dig himself out, only digging the hole deeper.
Morgan Weiss wasn’t wrong. There were definitely indiscretions.
