Page 62 of Hard Limits

“It’s only a small get-together at Cardinal, but we can play bridge again.”

What was I meant to say? “Could you tell me the date?”

“Friday, June thirtieth, and if I don’t put the details in Braxton’s diary, he forgets and starts scheduling other things.”

“I’ll make sure the day gets blocked out.”

And travel time on either side of it. Mr. Vale would definitely want to attend his mother’s party. I’d need to book flights—business class, not economy—but first, I’d have to check his whereabouts before and after. There would be no point in booking a ticket from LA if he was in New York that week. A sigh escaped. If things kept going the way they were, I wouldn’t be going with him. Hell, I might not be in the picture at all. At the moment, he mostly seemed to be drinking too much and ignoring me. His office door stayed firmly closed. If he was still mainlining whisky next week, I’d be forced to intervene, but so far, I’d just been monitoring his daily alcohol intake and making sure he drank plenty of water.

And it was good to hear Leon sounding cheerful. From the snippets Mr. Vale had let slip, I’d pieced together fragments of her history, and I feared my own mother would end up in a similar situation down the line. And worse, I couldn’t do anything to help her. Not physically and not financially.

“No need to worry about a gift,” Leon said. “Just your company will be enough.”

“I’ll make sure to tell Mr. Vale.”

“Mr. Vale? There’s no need for such formalities.”

“That’s what he prefers me to call him.”

“Tell him not to be so silly. Everyone calls him Braxton. Or Brax, although he’ll always be Braxton to me.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” I promised, but I knew I wouldn’t say a word. Life was difficult enough at the current time without rocking the boat. If it listed any farther, we’d all fall out.

Where was she? Four days had passed since I last heard from Meera. I’d expected the usual silly memes, an update on the swales, photos of her new place. But instead, there’d been radio silence.

Yesterday, I’d tried calling someone at the project, but I didn’t have a whole lot of information about it. Sure, I knew it was on a farm, and it involved a lot of digging, and there was a guy called Pedro, but I’d never asked for contact details. The farm was called Quinta do Lago—at least, I thought it was—but the only person I managed to speak to was a woman who told me in broken English that Meera was “no here, not today.”

In desperation, I’d attempted to contact Alfie, but when I called the number I had for him, a recorded message in what I assumed was Portuguese seemed to be telling me that the phone was out of service.

The only other person I could speak with was Celeste, currently on the Côte d’Azur, and she told me to try the Portuguese police. They refused to even take a report. She’s backpacking, they told me. She’s probably just moved on. But Meera wouldn’t do that, not without letting me know.

And what about her parents? She checked in with them every few days, and if she didn’t call, they’d start to worry too. Worse, they thought she was in freaking LA, working for Dunnvale Holdings. What the heck should I do? I could hardly call them up and ask questions. What if my brother was monitoring their phone? Or he’d begged them to get in touch when I called because the whole family was just so worried about dear Indali? I could post updates on her social media accounts. I had all the passwords. Would that hold them off? The problem was, if Meera truly was in trouble, my cover story could also stop the authorities from investigating, assuming that one of her Portuguese friends raised the alarm.

Today was Sunday. Tomorrow, I’d try contacting Quinta do Lago again—Lake Farm, according to an online translator. I could call from work. Maybe I’d get ahold of a different person? Someone who spoke better English? Or a close friend of Meera’s? If that didn’t work, then…then… I didn’t have a plan B. I’d have to go to Portugal. That would be the only option, and I couldn’t fly as Meera, not internationally. I didn’t have her passport; she did. Could I somehow obtain a fake? No, no, that was out of the question. Flying domestically with Meera’s REAL ID driver’s licence was a risk I’d take, but overseas with a biometric passport? No way. I’d get arrested, if not in the US, then at immigration in Portugal. I’d have to call the US embassy, and— Wait. The embassy… Could I call the US embassy in Portugal? What about the Portuguese embassy in the US? Where was it? Washington, DC? Again, Dr. Google came to the rescue. Yes, the main embassy was in DC, but there was an honorary consulate in Los Angeles. I could visit tomorrow. Mr. Vale was either drunk or AWOL these days, so the chances of him noticing my absence were slim. I had a plan.

As morning approached in Portugal, I sent one more message to Meera—call me, we need to talk—and said a silent prayer. Please let my twinny be okay.

CHAPTER 26

BRAX

It was done. A final agreement had been reached. On Sunday afternoon, Brax sent his confirmation of the deal—the lawyers had been working overtime this week, and they’d been paid handsomely for the privilege. Brax would receive one million dollars in cash, and his mom would get three million in a trust, accessible only for her personal use. He’d also negotiated the apartment in San Francisco—Carissa hated the city and wanted to make sure he stayed out of her way—plus he could keep his two Porsches and his boat. Affording the upkeep would be a challenge, but he could always sell them if need be. The handover of Dunnvale would be completed over the next month. One thing Brax had insisted upon was the opportunity to visit each site and tell the staff in person. To warn them. They deserved that much. Plus he could start laying the groundwork to poach them in the future.

He took one more sip of whisky, then poured the rest into the plant pot beside his desk. At least now, he had a chance at a future with Meera. He’d been neglecting her these past three weeks, too busy with property issues and alcoholism to pay her the attention she deserved. Although some space wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Judging by her reaction to their one and only kiss—the kiss that had kept him going through the gruelling discussions—she wouldn’t be happy about the divorce terms. She thought she wasn’t worth enough? She was worth everything.

In two days, he’d make it up to her. He only hoped that his love was as good as his money. Meera wasn’t materialistic, but he was glad he’d asked Violet to pick up a few more trinkets before the divorce went through. He wanted Meera to look like the queen she was.

The phone rang, and Brax cursed out loud when he saw the name. He almost sent his wife to voicemail, but what if there was an issue? He just wanted the whole damn thing over and done with. And after that, he never wanted to see or hear from the bitch again.

“What?”

“Why can’t we do this in New York? Why do I have to fly to LA?”

For fuck’s sake.

“The divorce case is being heard in California, remember? Judge Polk is squeezing us in at the end of the day on Tuesday as a favour.” The judge was a member of Nyx, and he’d expressed his sympathy over the upcoming proceedings. “Even your fucking lawyer is in LA. If we start over in New York, it’ll take months, and I’m not waiting months.”

“It’s because of her, isn’t it?”

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