Page 48 of Mistletoe Missus
A few minutes ticked by.
I cleared my throat. “How long will this take?”
“Only a few more minutes for such a sizable amount.”
“Perfect,” I said as I took out a compact mirror and pretended to fix my red lipstick.
After all, I had to play the part of a pristine and proper wife to a billionaire who was eager to spend his money and get everything I ever wanted.
“Transaction complete. We will send the bill of purchase to his office straight away,” the bank teller informed me. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, that will be all,” I replied as I spun around on my heels and, in the true fashion of a rich wife, I didn’t thank her for her efforts.
I was a rude bitch, but I had to keep up the dramatics. The deal was done, and I couldn’t afford any problems on my way out. I’d have enough to grapple with once my husband found out about our newest investment, and I couldn’t wait to tell him all about it.
TWENTY-FIVE
Fired Up
Mitt
“Iwant the Miller case on my desk at noon,” I barked an order at my newest assistant. “Don’t disturb me before then. I’d hate to fire you.”
I slammed my office door before she could open her mouth. She was a nuisance anyway, and I didn’t even know her damn name. I didn’t care either. She’d quit just like the rest of them, and I’d be left with another useless person. Someone else to get on my nerves, making me wish I was in the courtroom. The one place I was superior and completely in charge.
When a case unfolded, I rarely ever lost, and I was on top of the world. Being a cutthroat lawyer was my destiny, and justice had always run in my blood. I grew up with my nose stuck in law textbooks after my mother’s death. Weeks after her disappearance, police found her dismembered and in pieces. The press had labeled her death a horrific incident, and the story was on the news for many months. Until her case went unsolved—law enforcement never found her murderer.
I wanted to avenge her, but I never could, and I obsessed over every case I won under the court of law. It had become a form of therapy for me to help heal a little boy’s heart who lost a mother he never should have. A young man who missed her loveand couldn’t even remember her voice. Her face remained only in a few photographs my father gave to me because he wanted nothing to do with them, because he couldn’t stand the sight of her. Harsh words for a father to give to his grieving son, but I knew to heed his words. So, I kept those photos hidden away in my wardrobe at Morgan Estates, but I always kept my favorite in the breast pocket of my suit. Tucked away close to my heart. She was the only woman I had ever let inside. But my God, she was beautiful.
As stunning as Tinsley.
I took a seat at my desk and grabbed a black ball-point pen as I stared at the stack of paperwork awaiting my signature. I hated being at the office and loathed any task I had to do there. But as grumpy as I was, I had to get through them because this was part of my job.
My cell phone dinged with a text message, and I ignored it. I didn’t need the interference and just wanted to get this over with. With no need to read the fine print, I reached for the first piece of paper. I had staff to do the daunting task for me, leaving the paperwork for me to sign on the dotted line.
The black ink swerved as I wrote my name in cursive, and I reached for the next document. My phone made a sound for a second time and then a third. My eyebrows inched together in puzzlement, curious about what could be so fucking important. The sound became more consistent, so I grabbed the device with a grunt.
Several text messages popped up from my father.
Dad: Call me.
Two minutes later.
Dad: Son. This is important. Call me back.
A minute after the previous text message.
Dad: We need to speak immediately.
Not even a minute after.
Dad: Goddamn it! Call me right now!
Instead of calling my father back right away and listening to his demanding command, I waited and glared down at the phone. Any other grown child would’ve rushed to their father’s aid, but no way in fucking hell would I. Not after everything the son of a bitch had put me through.
I never grew up knowing what a loving touch was from my parents—only the sensation of searing pain from burning flesh. The smell of charred skin and the taste of my salty tears as they made it to my lips. He’d get mad at me for being a big baby and shout at me to be a man. His manipulation and constant threats were a world I could never escape. He was rich and could talk his way out of any situation. He got away with everything. My father was as callous as they come, and his sinful reality ruled my life. I’d do as he wanted or live through hell on earth. He controlled everything. There was no way around him, and yet I still sought my father’s approval. I wanted him to be proud of the man I had become, and I still hated him so damn much. He had abused me, and I had stayed silent because no one would listen. I knew I was all alone, but I still had moments where I could pick to obey.
And boy, did I enjoy toying with the mother fucker I called my dad.
