Page 46 of Played
I pride myself on being a good reader of people, and it pains me that I missed something he picked up on so quickly. “I figured it was their usual sense of entitlement.”
He nods. “No doubt that’s a factor, but I would wager there’s more at stake than that. Are they experiencing any financial issues?”
“Not that I’m aware of. My mother’s art collection alone is worth millions, her jewels are worth more than most trust funds, and their house is worth at least ten million. They still have a housekeeper. I can’t imagine they’re struggling to any significant extent.”
Nathan’s hums like he’s still thinking, still working through the details of the meeting. “Houses can be mortgaged, jewelry replicated from paste, and art collections can be copied and then sold. Their behavior would make more sense if they were broke is all I’m saying.”
He makes valid points, but the idea of my parents being broke is ridiculous. There’s no way to squander the kind of wealth they had. “I don’t know. I’ve never looked into their financial situation. But they sure put on a good front if they are broke.”
“I could be wrong, but it’s worth considering. This may not be the last you hear of this. Even if they don’t pursue it through legal means, they may try and use some other underhanded means.”
I definitely wouldn’t put it past them. “Such as?”
“The good old guilt trip for one.”
I laugh. “Well, that one won’t work on me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. We often have blind spots when it comes to our parents. Just be on your guard.” The elevator reaches the ground floor, and we both step out. “That will is rock solid. I couldn’t have written it better myself. But don’t hesitate to reach out if you need any more advice.”
I thank him and tell him where to send my bill, but he insists on offering his time for free. After agreeing that I’ll at least buy him a nice bottle of Scotch, we shake hands. When I climb on my bike, Nathan’s words are still playing on my mind. Are the Worthingtons broke? And if they are, what the fuck have they done with all their money?
Chapter
Twenty-Three
KING
“I’m so sorry for your loss. My condolences, Emmeline.” I listen to those words over and over again, and my mother soaks it all up.
She shed a single, solitary tear during the service, allowing it to run all the way down her cheek before she daintily dabbed it away with her napkin. She is center stage today and loving it. She thrives on the attention. Predictably, my father uses the opportunity to network and connect with his old cronies. They make me sick.
We’ve barely uttered a word to each other since the meeting at their lawyer’s office a few days ago, and they have given me nothing but contempt all day long. I suspect they wouldn’t have allowed me here to pay my respects if it wouldn’t have made them look bad. But it was a mistake coming to their house after the service. There were three people present today who actually loved my grandfather—Leonard, Amanda, and me. They both left after the service I planned, declining the offer to come to the exquisitely catered wake at my parents’ house.
I can barely stand to be here a second longer. I only came because it felt disrespectful to Grampa to not show my face.But none of these people knew him. None of them gave a damn about him.
Without a word to anyone, I jump on my bike and head back into the city. Maybe it’s instinct that takes me to the Jamestech building. It’s only a little after six. He’s probably still in there. And I don’t care if it’s stupid or that we’re pretending we don’t have feelings for each other. I need him.
That’s why, a few minutes later, I find myself standing in the doorway to his office. Thankfully, he is still here, sitting behind his desk with his sleeves rolled up and his eyes glued to his monitor. Uncharacteristically for me, I knock.
I’m sure he smiles when he sees me, but if I’m right, he quickly hides it. “Hey.”
“Can I come in?”
He pushes back his chair and rests his hands behind his head. “You don’t usually ask.”
I walk inside and, out of habit, close the door behind me. Not because I expect anything from him. Avoiding my usual seat opposite him, I wander over to the coffee machine and run my fingertips over the handle of a mug.
“How was today?” His deep voice washes over me, comforting and familiar.
Tears well in my eyes. “Fucking awful.”
“I’m sorry. Funerals suck. You okay?”
I stare at the wall, not wanting to admit that I’m not. Not wanting to look in his eyes and let him unravel me.
When I don’t answer, he pushes his chair back and his footsteps grow closer until I can feel him standing behind me. “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
