Page 2 of You, Me, & Après-Ski
And I intended to make her proud.
Without missing a beat, Daphne plucked the correct packet out of the pile for me. “I heard Anton on the phone when he left, telling his father we’re not selling Hale’s Peak…?”
With a sigh, I set the papers aside. “Cyrus called. Conferenced in Grandpa Arthur too.”
“Explains your joyous mood. What did they say?”
“I have to spend the winter at Hale’s Peak and ‘experience everything the property, staff, and surrounding community have to offer’ before Arthur will vote to support me in selling.” I left out the part about parading my fake engagement in front of the cameras to drum up some good publicity—that was a closely held secret forced upon me and Cressida by our fathers.
Glowering at the paperwork as if it personally offended me, I sat back in my chair with a huff. My brothers didn’t have to deal with this bullshit. Raife and Dominic were lucky to be out of the family business even if it meant they were cut off from our finances. I’d almost rather be taking up with an outlaw motorcycle club or mucking about on a ranch like them instead of being forced to walk down memory fucking lane.
Wincing, Daphne said, “But Arthur knows your history with the place—”
“Yes, but he won’t budge. I must comply, or the board will reject any proposal I put forward.”
The board vote was coming up in April, and I had to finish off my first year as CEO with flying colors to solidify my position—or else my father would become CEO instead. I already had a nice portfolio of property acquisitions and renovations completed and planned, but Hale’s Peak was the one remaining hurdle. Arthur was the chairman and majority shareholder, so nothing would go through without his approval. He had a soft spot for my mother and Hale’s Peak, so he favored renovating but he could be swayed. And I would do anything to secure his vote even if it meant returning to the last place I ever wanted to go.
The last place I saw my mother alive.
Daphne gave my hand a sympathetic pat, then said, “Oh, before you leave—and yes, you should go home tonight, you need tosleep—this came for you today.” She placed a plain envelope on my desk. Noreturn address, stamp, or postal information. Just my name on the front, typed. I raised an eyebrow.
“No idea who left it,” Daphne said. “It was on my desk when I came back from a coffee run.” With a shrug, she left me to my devices.
Normally, I’d toss something like this straight in the garbage. Back in the day, the tabloids loved running stories about whoever was occupying my bed that particular night, painting me as the playboy billionaire—which wasn’t totally inaccurate. The media exposure had resulted in some stalker-y letters and hate mail, but curiosity got the better of me. I sliced a letter opener across the top and read the simple sentence typed by an old typewriter.
My eyes raced over the words again and again, my hands shaking.What the fuck is this? Who sent this?The words on the page blistered into my mind until I saw them even when I closed my eyes.
Your mother’s death was not an accident.
I pulled my Aston Martin DB12 Coupe into the driveway of my row home in Presidio Heights, clutching the steering wheel in a death grip.
After opening the letter, I holed up in my office while my team scoured security footage for any sign of who had left the letter. As the hours ticked by with no answers and the room grew dark around me, something in me snapped. Suddenly, my massive corner office felt too small, too stifling. I’d driven home like a madman, the letter burning a hole in my suit jacket pocket, searing straight into my heart.
Taking up half the block, my monstrosity of a house stood four stories high. The place held no warmth for me anymore, but my mother had loved the big bay windows that overlooked the Golden Gate Bridge. Sorather than sell it, I held onto it. Besides, Cressida liked it, and anything I could do to make her attachment to me less miserable for her, I’d do it.
Walking inside, I threw my coat at the rack and stomped into the expansive kitchen. I’d renovated the entire place, but I’d kept my mother’s reading nook the same, the bittersweet memories hiding in the folds of the wallpaper and the crease of the carpet.
I poured a glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the backlit bar, then tossed my tie aside, feeling as cold and dead as the marble countertop.
Your mother’s death was not an accident.
Seven words looping through my mind in an unending chant. My hand tightened around the glass. I’d put my mother’s death behind me long ago—I’d been twelve—but those seven words dragged up twenty-one years of emotions laid bare in therapy.
Taking a hearty swig of whiskey, I vowed to deal with it all later. Tonight, I would drown my feelings.
Even though it was after midnight, when I walked into the living room, Cressida sat on the couch, tapping on her phone with a perfectly manicured nail.
My fiancée was gorgeous. Blonde hair like a pin-up girl, legs for days, an ass that was more than a handful. Elegant. Loyal. Smart as hell.
But we weren’t in love.
Cressida looked up, a smile curving her full lips. Her ocean-blue eyes found mine, bright and sharp. But the haunted gleam never left them. Not since that night eleven years ago when my asshole of a brother abandoned her, and I was the one to pick up the pieces. It made me want to throttle him until he begged her for mercy. She was far too good for any of us Kellers.
“Bad day?” I asked, offering her my glass.
Cressida took a sip with a shrug that shifted her robe, exposing the tops of her breasts. The red lacy bra caught my attention and I raised a brow. Normally, Cressida did not put on a show for me.
“So areallybad day then.”
