Page 70 of The Stranger
The tortured smile he gives me tugs at my heartstrings. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Delilah. I’m the one who needs to apologise for him placing his hands on you. I was able to put a stop to him working here, but since he’s a shareholder, he must attend all our meetings.”
“I’m okay,” I assure him. “He only grabbed my arm.”
“I’m glad I could stop it before it went any further.”
“He said he was only going to introduce himself.”
“Hah,” he scoffs. “My father was the type of boss who would take certain liberties from young, pretty, female employees. How do you think he met his current wife? I don’t want that man anywhere near you.”
“Oh.”
No wonder Spencer is having issues with our age gap. He’s probably seeing himself through his father’s eyes, which is ridiculous. I only met the man briefly and I already know they are nothing alike.
Spencer blows out an exasperated breath as his hand drops from the top of his head to slide inside his suit jacket. He pulls out his phone and swipes his forefinger over the screen.
“Shay-lee, it’s Spencer Prescott. Can you please sendsecurity up to the eleventh floor?” Once he ends the call, he focuses his attention back on me. “I’m going to have someone escort you back to your office as a precaution.”
I nod my head in response as my arms wrap around my torso to comfort myself.
Chapter 24
Spencer
The last thing I expected when I re-entered the boardroom and found everyone had retaken their seats, was a round of applause. That my top executives had witnessed that shit show with my father was mortifying.
When I became CEO, I quickly learnt that a large majority of our staff were not fans of his, for obvious reasons. I’d worked here for years before taking over, but I steered clear of him wherever possible, so I was oblivious to how deep his betrayal ran.
Although he’s not a man I’ve ever looked up to, learning the cold hard truth about the person who shares half of your DNA was a hard pill to swallow. It forced me to take a long look at myself, and I’ve strived every day since to be nothing like him.
Once the working day ended, I had security escort Delilah to the limousine, where Damien was waiting to take her home. Unfortunately, I could not join her, because I had a more pressing engagement—a meeting with Logan, my lawyer. I needed to make sure all myducks were in a row. My father would not take this lying down, but I was determined to see him gone.
I have an ace up my sleeve. Files that I was unaware existed until I took over.
Christine, my current HR Manager, was the receptionist for that department during my father’s reign. A slimeball by the name of Gary Hanson was running the show back then and colluding with my father to get rid of or pay out any employees that were wronged.Hush money. If all else failed, he’d simply destroy evidence and help bury the scandal.
What they both failed to realise was Christine was keeping records and receipts of all the corrupt behaviour that had been going on. When she handed me the files, I immediately let that weasel go and replaced him with her. She was the type of exemplary employee I needed heading my Human Resources department, considering their primary role was to secure a productive and positive work environment.
It is after eight by the time I finally arrive home, and my head is pounding. I called my mother earlier to give her a heads-up. It’s not unlike my father to reach out to her when things don’t go his way. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d warned her to put a leash on her son.
I also asked her to check in on Delilah, but I was not expecting to find her sitting at my kitchen island drinking a glass of wine when I entered the apartment.
I meant a phone call or message.Not a visit.
Unlike the ill feelings I have towards my father, I adore my mother, but I’m tired, irritable, and not in the mood for company.
“Darling,” she says the moment I enter.
“Mother,” I reply. My eyes flicker over to Delilah, who’s standing by the kitchen sink washing dishes.
“We cooked for you.” I arch an eyebrow. “Well, Delilah cooked … I supervised.”
“Supervised?” My mother couldn’t cook to save her life.
She lifts one shoulder. “Technically, I just poured the wine.”
“Right,” I say, chuckling. That sounds more like it.
Rising from the barstool, she crosses the room to greet me, taking my briefcase out of my hand and kissing my cheek. “She knows her way around the kitchen,” she whispers. “I’m impressed. That one is a keeper.”
