“Why have you been calling me?” I asked Mom.
Her eyes flicked to Dad, guilt creeping into her expression. Maybe he didn’t know that she’d been dialing my number nonstop.
“If you really wanted to know, maybe you should have answered the phone,” Dad clipped. Okay, so maybe he did know about the calls.
“Why the private investigator?”
“You packed up your car and left.” Mom looked at me like I’d offended her. Like I’d spit in her champagne.
“There was no reason for me to stay in New York.” I leveled a glare at Dad. “I had no job. No home.”
He leaned back in his seat, giving me that impassive stare he was so feared for at Ward headquarters. “That was your choice.”
“Was it?” I arched an eyebrow.
“We wanted to make sure you were safe,” Mom said, her voice dropping to nothing more than a whisper.
She had wanted to know I was safe. Having me followed must have been her idea. From the look on Dad’s face, he couldn’t have cared less.
“If you were really worried about my safety, you would have come to the hospital when I was in labor.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” Mom looked to Dad with blame etched on her pretty face. “That man from yesterday. Who is he?”
“Knox Eden. His family owns this hotel.”
“Oh, is—”
Dad frowned. One single glare and Mom ceased speaking as he waved her away. A flick of the wrist that her questions were nothing.
She shrank into her chair. While Dad hadn’t changed in months, Mom seemed . . . tired.
The lines around her eyes were more prominent, not that there were many. She had a team of estheticians who pampered her weekly along with a world-class dermatologist and the highest-paid plastic surgeon in New York City to ensure she didn’t look a day over forty.
Unlike Dad, Mom hadn’t come from money. She’d married into wealth, and because of her prenup, there was little she’d do to risk the six-carat diamond on her ring finger. She’d fight time and age tooth and nail until the end of her days.
At one point, I’d pitied Mom. She loved her lifestyle and it had trapped her to my father’s every whim. But that was before she’d left me alone. Before she’d cowered to his will and, as such, forsaken her child. There was no pity left.
She could call every day from now until the end of her life. It was too damn late.
She’d made her choice.
And I’d made mine.
“Why are you really here?” That question I aimed at my father. “I’ll take the truth this time. Because there is no way you’d travel here to rescue your daughter.”
“You’re to come home. Once we arrive in New York, we will have a more thorough discussion.”
“Unless you plan to put a bag over my head and drag me onto the airplane, I won’t be leaving Quincy.”
Dad’s jaw clenched. “You’ve made your point, Memphis. You’ve had your little tantrum. Enough.”
“You think this is a tantrum?” I huffed a dry laugh. “This isn’t me acting out to get your attention. I don’t need or want you in my life.”
Imagining Drake saying that statement to me would have been like a dagger through my chest.
Mom flinched.
Dad didn’t so much as blink.
“If you want a thorough discussion . . .” I threw his words at him. “We’ll be having it here. This is your window of opportunity.”
He pursed his lips.
“Fine.” I made a move to stand but he held up a hand.
“I received a call from a woman.”
I settled into my chair as the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. “Who?”
“She didn’t give me her name. But she claims that you have Oliver MacKay’s child.”
It took everything I had not to react. I felt the color drain from my face, yet I didn’t move. I barely breathed.
“She’s blackmailing us. Either we pay her to keep quiet or she’ll be going to the press. You’re to come home so I can ensure you keep your mouth shut while my lawyers eviscerate her.”
My heart beat so hard it hurt. Who was this woman? How could she know about Oliver? Unless this was all a lie. Maybe Mom’s private investigator had done more than simply follow me to Montana. Maybe I’d screwed up and left some trace along the way.
Dad was stubborn enough to intrude into his daughter’s personal life.
“Here’s what I don’t understand.” I held up a finger when Dad opened his mouth. “Why do you want to know so badly? Why?”
“Why won’t you just tell me so we can deal with this mess? Is it Oliver MacKay?”
“It’s not your business.”
“Damn it, Memphis.” He leaned forward, a growl in his voice. “You are acting like an insolent child.”
“You are not entitled to control of my life.”
“I am your father.”
I shook my head. “You do not understand the meaning of that word.”
“Memphis, this is so petty,” Mom said. “Your father is trying to help. But we need all of the information.”
“This woman. This blackmailer. Let her go to the press.” It was the last thing I wanted but I suspected my father felt the same. So I’d call his bluff.
As long as I didn’t admit or confirm that Drake was Oliver’s child, there was nothing but speculation. Considering I was in Montana, this drama wouldn’t touch me in the slightest.
But it would definitely put a damper on Dad’s day.
“Oliver MacKay?” Dad seethed. “Really, Memphis? I thought you were smarter than that. Instead you’ve acted like a whore and now I’m cleaning up this mess.”
Mom tensed in her chair but she certainly didn’t come to my rescue.
A whore. Maybe. It stung, but it wasn’t the first time he’d used his words like a whip. “If you’re worried about your reputation and a scandal, then pay the woman and be done with it. Or don’t pay her. I don’t care. But I told you months ago, my son is mine and mine alone. You can either accept that or not. It doesn’t matter. We don’t need you.”
“I’ll use the money from your trust fund.”
“Are you here looking for my permission? Trust me, I realized the day I left that the money would never be mine.”
“Is it true? Is it Oliver?” Mom asked.
I clamped my mouth shut.
“Memphis.” Dad enunciated both syllables of my name. That meant he was moving beyond angry to infuriated. “You realize that if this gets out, people will believe we’re linked to that family.”
“So?”
Dad’s eyes narrowed. “We cannot afford a scandal with the mafia. I’ve spent my life rebuilding our good name.”
His life’s work had been spent correcting his own father’s mistakes.
My grandfather had started Ward Hotels in New York. He’d been extremely profitable in a time when other hotels had not. Dad had never confirmed exactly why, but when I was twelve, the FBI had investigated the business.
The only reason I’d known about it was because an agent had come to our home one day. I’d been sick and hadn’t gone to school. My nanny had made me stay in bed all day, but I’d wanted to watch TV. So while she’d thought I was napping, I’d snuck out of my room.