Page 8 of Parker
Our marriage cracked wide open, and each passing day only fractured us further. The happily ever after we both believed in withered before my eyes.
I move to sit back at my desk, the shattered glass still strewn over the oak floor. A few taps of the keys pulls up the security cameras. Nicky stalks across the parking lot in her sky-high heels, hips swinging with fury in that damn dress.
I can’t see her face, but I can imagine her expression. Livid, deadly, disappointed. It was something I became used to during the days of our marriage’s decline. The change was so rapid, it was like whiplash.
The black gates retract, allowing her to walk out into the Glasgow streets, and she disappears from view. I pick up my phone to send a message. There are some things my mother doesn’t need to know.
Follow her. Ensure she gets home safe.
The reply is instantaneous, as it should be. Her safety is his job.
Yes, Boss.
After the call I received earlier about Nicky’s impending arrival, I hoped for a more pleasant reunion. Perhaps an apology for the police station incident, or an adult conversation. A discussion, at least. I never expected her to ask for her designs, the ones she stole. Sometimes, I look at her and wonder if she’s still the woman I fell in love with, even though my aching heart confirms it every fucking time.
My cell vibrates, interrupting my pity party, alerting me to a message. My mother.
Boardroom now.
Resigned to yet another Monday morning debrief from the woman who birthed me, I close my laptop and do as I’m told.
The boardroom is on the third floor of the building. As I climb the stairs, dread stirs in my chest. It’s a feeling I’ve become used to growing up in a family like mine. That sense of knowing I won’t like what is on the other side of the door before I arrive.
My family has never been about love or trust. The focus is always on winning.
By the age of fifteen, my mother, Imelda Grey, was contracted to marry my father. Evander Parker, being ten years older than her, had to wait until her eighteenth birthday to take possession of his wife.
My parents’ love story I’ve heard many times, always told laced with adoration and infatuation. But looking back, I realize it was purely a business transaction, and that depresses me. The fact that I was conceived for money, not love, explains my mother’s bitterness.
Others controlled her from her youngest years; she never had independence in her life decisions. If she’d been left to her own devices, I wonder what direction she would have taken. She is a beautiful woman, tall and slender with deep brown eyes and long silver hair. Our own fashion house designs every outfit in her extensive wardrobe, and she drips in jewelry. The only thing missing from her life is happiness.
My father was a troublesome man to be married to. He lived under the silent pressure of the Parker name. My great-grandfather built a dynasty, and it has been passed down through his son and so on. Harold Parker, the original king of the Parker empire, was ruthless. He relied on corrupt business deals and payoffs to produce much of our wealth illegally.
In the late 1890s, my great-grandfather ran a security business, but this was not your normal protection company. In our business, you either paid for a hit or you paid not to be killed. Harold Parker ran a dangerous game between the customer and the victim, often double-crossing people. He mademillions in dirty money, which was laundered through night-time establishments.
His son, James, my grandfather, felt uncomfortable with the bloodshed caused by his father. During his reign, the business moved to the hoarding of property and assets. Often, he would buy up vast amounts of housing and businesses in trouble, only to rent them back to their previous owners. Money circled the area but always ended up back in the Parker family pockets.
When my father became head of the company at eighteen after the death of his father, he continued the heritage much the same, learning on the job with the support of the surrounding men.
Parker Fashion was born in 1973 after he spotted the talent of one of his men’s wives in creating clothing. Elizabeth was a magician with a needle, creating one-off pieces for friends and family. My father took her talent and made himself a multi-million-pound business. They removed Elizabeth from the business in the early eighties after she asked for more recognition for its success. They handed her a check for one million pounds and told her to enjoy her retirement.
The mercilessness of the Parker blood has evaded me. I work hard, and my head for figures has seen our profit margins double, but I struggle with the tough decisions. The team’s happiness and security are more important to me than money. People should feel appreciated and secure in their workplace, not constantly on edge, waiting to be screwed over.
My mother, however, stepped up after my father’s death superbly. It is as if she was born to lead. I stand by her side and watch with both awe and terror at some decisions she’s made, praying one day, when the time is mine, that I can lead with a combination of her hardheartedness alongside my empathy to benefit us all.
As I push open the heavy oak door, it swings effortlessly on its hinges. Light floods the boardroom from the expanse of glass along the back wall, overlooking the perfectly maintained gardens. The long black glass table surrounded by leather chairs sits empty, except for two familiar figures at the far end.
My mother and Ebony wait for me, their expressions tight, eyes filled with determination.
“What was she doing here?” my mother spits before I even close the door. The ridiculous urge to lie crosses my mind, but I bat it away, knowing it’s pointless.
“Nicky was asking about her designs.” I keep my reply short, hoping to move the conversation beyond her favorite topic of my ex-wife. “She’s gone without them.” Both women cackle, shaking their heads, the prior revulsion morphing to humor.
“She really doesn’t have any morals,” Ebony says, her voice acidic.
“I knew that from the minute I clamped eyes on her,” my mother adds. “Gold digger. Pure and simple.”
Taking a breath, I walk over and sit on the other side of the table from Ebony. There is no point arguing with them, not on this subject. My mother holds court at the top. There is no debate about who is in charge.
