Page 13 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two
Not for fucking long.
“Got it,” I grind out.
“Excellent!” Lakeland says brightly. Then, with more laughter on the other end, the call abruptly ends.
I drop the phone onto its receiver and sit for a few minutes, breathing deeply and trying not to crash out over the fact that I’m going to Chicago.
A place I’ve avoided religiously.
The place where Shae resides, last I checked.
“Fuck,” I say, already feeling my chest getting tight and my skin starting to buzz.
Shae. I’m going to be in the same zip code as Shae. What if I see her? What if I run into her?
What if I don’t see her at all?
Get it the fuck together, Sandoval.
Spinning in my seat, I assess the massive CEO office space oh so graciously gifted to me by Lakeland.
Like the rest of Stratos’ east coast office, it’s all sleek lines and exactly what you’d expect from a Manhattan financial services firm.
If only people knew the silk Persian rugs and Hermès desk sets were paid for in blood.
Soon. Soon, I’ll be able to put all of this to rest—bury it deep in the ground along with Lakeland’s rotting corpse.
I blow out a breath and stand, grabbing my keys in my free hand.
Yes, I’ll finally win this long war—as long as I don’t get distracted.
THREE
SHAE
“Are you really going to skip out on this vacation?” My mom sniffs into the phone, which sounds entirely too loud in my Mercedes G-Wagon as it rings from the speakers.
It’s almost the end of August, and I’m supposed to be seeing the lavender fields with my mother and seven-year-old twins in Europe right now.
Instead, I’m sitting in traffic as I round The Loop to head toward Wednesday Designs’ boutique in River North.
I have no right at all to be annoyed with her, but there’s still an itch ofsomethingbeneath my skin as she asks the questionagain. I already feel like shit enough, but with the acquisition hiccups on the Keystone deal, I had to miss out on the trip to France with the kids.
Which is doubly screwed up, because the entire reason for the trip was to make up for missing the end of their school year.
“I’m sorry, Ma. If there were any other way, I’d make it happen.” Guilt is such a dirty feeling.
She blows out a disappointed breath, and I flex my fingers against the steering wheel.
Lord knows I need the break from work, and I miss my kids as much as I’d miss breathing, but with crisis after crisis rolling down the pike, I haven’t had a chance to eat somewhere that’s not my desk or a business lunch. Much less flounce across the world on vacation.
“Shae Olivya,” she says, disappointment heavy in her tone. “I suppose it’s okay. There are only a few more days left anyway. The kids are wiped, and I know I can’t wait to get home myself.”
More guilt. I definitely deserve to feel guilty. Mama’s been there for me through all of this—my pregnancy, those early weeks after the twins were born when I felt like I was going to die from sleep deprivation. Orisun wouldn’t exist without her and Daddy. They took out a second mortgage on the Bronzeville house to fund my buy-in, which gave me the shares I needed for majority control.
She’s been with me through it all, and the kids love their GiGi.
And still….
