Page 69 of Babies for the Christmas Grump
She doesn’t back off. “No, this isn’t nothing. I can hear it in your voice, you’re not yourself. I’ll be there as soon as I can. And I’ll bring donuts.”
A laugh bubbles up despite the nausea still churning in my gut. “I can’t believe you’re talking about donuts. You’re gonna feed me carbs and sugar and call it medicine, huh?”
“Absolutely,” she says without missing a beat. “If I have to bribe you with pastries to get you to take care of yourself, I will. But no excuses. You’re gonna let me look after you for once, alright?”
I sigh, but it’s a little more relieved this time. I really can’t fight her. “Fine. But only because you’re insisting. I’m counting on you for the world’s best donut selection. No pressure.”
“You got it. See you as soon as I can, and don’t do anything stupid while I’m on my way.”
I hang up the phone, my chest a little lighter despite the sick feeling still swirling inside me. The dizziness is still there, nagging at the edges of my thoughts, but it helps to know Marjorie’s on her way, and I’ll have someone on my side for at least a few hours.
I close my eyes for a moment, take in a shaky breath, and try to push everything out of my mind.One step at a time, Sunny. One step at a time.
After the phone call, I try to pull myself together. The gala is coming up, and if I can’t manage to at least pretend to know what I’m doing, I’m pretty sure the whole hotel will implode before we even get to the Christmas lights.
So, I find myself in Aunt Evie’s room, at her desk. But no matter how hard I focus on the spreadsheet in front of me, something doesn’t click.
My eyes are too tired, my head is consumed in a fog, and the numbers. Ugh. They blur into a jumble of dollar signs and cell columns.
I reach for my coffee, of which I’ve had about three cups today, not that it’s doing much, and that’s when I see it.
Another strange folder.
What is this? I haven’t seen it before.
I know that for sure because I’ve been obsessively going through this office like a detective searching for evidence. Andyet, there it is, all thick and official-looking, sitting at the corner of my desk, with “Lang Capital Holdings” printed across the top in sleek, too-perfect letters.
Okay.
Okay, no big deal.
Maybe it’s nothing.
But my gut’s already tight, and that’s usually my cue to panic. I open it, and… well, no. This isn’t nothing. This is… a whole bunch of numbers that make no sense.
I know it isn’t good. Red flags everywhere.
My fingers start to shake.
The numbers inside aren’t just confusing. They’re wrong. There are invoices for services Evie never seemed to use, consulting fees that no one ever approved, and deposits logged but never matched to bookings.
Tens of thousands of dollars moved around like a shell game, disappearing into nothing.
I slam the folder shut, but the damage is done. My brain won’t stop spinning. Lang Capital Holdings. The name is a firecracker going off in my head, echoing through every corner of my thoughts.
I look around the room. The curtains. The vase on the desk. The picture frame. And then…bam.
There it is again, staring at me like a billboard: Lang. Capital. Holdings.
In the background of a photo with Aunt Evie and some guy.
My breath catches in my throat. What the hell is going on? I grab my phone and start Googling, but the more I search, the more I see that name.
Vincent Lang.
It’s everywhere. And every link is a dead end. Investors. Business dealings. Mergers. More numbers I don’t understand.
I feel my stomach tighten, and panic starts to creep in. What if this is about to get way worse? What if Ryder has been hiding something?
