He didn’t say it with force, but I couldn’t tolerate it regardless. I halted and turned to face him. There weren’t tired lines etched at the corner of his eyes, and when he rubbed his fingers at his temple, I noted the flash of his cufflinks. Ares, the god of war—a gift from Marist.
It was difficult to tolerate how he had everything he wanted. His youth, his wife’s love, his high position within the company I’d done more for than any other Hale. In my desire to win at all costs, I’d lost practically everything.
Even people to desperately pin my failure on.
I kept my voice low so as not to disturb our employees in the offices nearby. “You do not tell me what to do.”
Royce’s shoulders lifted as he assumed a confrontational posture but matched my hushed voice. “You were an embarrassment in there.” He motioned back toward the conference room. “Go home, Dad. We didn’t fall apart while you were gone for two years. I think we can handle one fucking afternoon.”
When I didn’t move, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, which was a mannerism he’d unwittingly picked up from me.
“I’m asking,” he said. “Please.”
The word didn’t come easily to him, and I could respect that. We were both aware of the hierarchy at HBHC and how far he’d risen, and I appreciated that he chose not to flex his power or throw it in my face, especially since when the roles were reversed, I’d done it to him.
I was a sore loser, yet my son was gracious in his victory.
“You’ve made your point,” I said, conceding. I was tired and no good to anyone. “You’ll call if anything comes across your desk that needs my input.”
He relaxed a degree. “Yeah, of course.”
I gave a short nod as a goodbye and resumed my journey toward my office, but felt his gaze at my back. Despite everything I’d done, he still cared enough about me to worry, proving he was a better man than I’d given him credit for. It gave me a sliver of hope we’d find a way to repair some of the damage I’d done.
Sophia was at her desk, hunched over her computer for once instead of her phone, but when my shadow fell over her, she lifted her gaze to mine and kept her face blank.
“My office,” I barked. “Now.”
As expected, she did exactly as asked and shut the door behind us. However, alarm made her tense when I strode to one of the couches and sat, pointing to the other across from me.
There was an edge of panic she tried to keep out of her voice. “Are you firing me?”
“No.” I watched her scurry toward the couch. “We need to discuss last night.”
“Oh.” She wore a red top and a black and white houndstooth skirt, which rode up a little as she crossed her long legs. Her expression was guarded. “Which speech am I getting?”
“Excuse me?”
Her eyes were dull and resigned. “I have a lot of work to do, so let’s save us both some time. Is this the ‘you’re a great girl, and last night was fun, but it didn’t mean anything’ speech? Or the ‘it was a mistake and it can’t happen again’ one?”
It was stunning how quickly she upended my thoughts. I had spent the ride in this morning carefully crafting the specific language to use to minimize how upset she’d likely become when I told her I was putting a stop to this. Yet she didn’t seem upset at all.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I clarified, “but you’re correct. It cannot happen again.”
“Okay,” she said plainly, the matter settled. “Is there anything else?”
Her dismissive attitude was a knife in my gut. I should have been pleased to have it over with so painlessly. It was a better outcome than I could have hoped for. But the idea that she had no qualms about walking away from me after what we’d done—what we’d shared—last night . . .
It rankled.
No, worse. I despised it.
“Don’t misunderstand,” I tried to keep my tone even and not seethe, “this isn’t what I want, but it’s necessary. You are too young, and if anyone were to find out, it’d destroy us both.”
“I get it.” She uncrossed her legs and smoothed her palms down her skirt before rising to her feet. “It would be bad if anyone knew.” She stared at me with electricity in her eyes and a cruel smile on her lips. “It’s really a shame,” she deadpanned, “that neither of us is any good at keeping secrets.”
My tired mind failed me with a response, and by the time I’d drummed one up, she was halfway out the door.
It vexed me the way Sophia pretended nothing had happened between us. Perhaps she was proving her point. I knew nothing about any of the secrets she held, or why she wanted the focus of DuBois’s book to be partly on her.
It was staggering the way she could compartmentalize her emotions, but it made sense. To compete at the Olympic level, she’d learned to turn off everything that had the potential to distract from her goal.
I was downright jealous of her ability.
Arrangements were made as we’d discussed. On Monday, I had dinner with Damon Lynch and offered to host an event for him and his campaign at my estate in July, which he graciously accepted. On Tuesday afternoon, I went to the Boston Opera Theatre to speak with the theatre director and came back to the office $200,000 poorer, but a guarantee that my grant would be used to produce a show casting Scoffield’s daughter Erika in a role, even if it were a minor one.
On Wednesday, I went to human resources and put someone on hiring Jason Vanderburgh, whatever position would be a good fit for both him and my company.
And on Thursday, Sophia came into the office wearing slacks.
I saw right through her attempt to test my limits. We were playing a different form of chess, and my next move was easy to execute. All it took was one phone call.
Friday morning, I was already in my office when she arrived, waltzing in to deliver my coffee, and for once I was pleased to see she was wearing pants. I gestured to the large, flat white box tied with a silver bow resting on the table in the sitting area.
“That came for you.”
She nearly spilled my coffee as I took the cup from her.
“What is it?” She eyed it warily, like it might explode if she touched it.
I feigned indifference. “Go find out.”
She trudged to the table and picked at the ribbon, tugging slowly until the knot slipped free and she pulled the satin away. The lid was lifted, and she hesitated, her gaze lingering on the designer logo stamped on the sticker holding the tissue paper closed.
It was unclear if her question was for me or rhetorical. “What is this?”
The tissue rustled as she opened and pushed it aside, and then the lid she’d been holding on to crinkled under the sudden pressure of her hand. She didn’t seem aware. Her free hand leaned down to touch the fabric of the midnight blue dress as if she weren’t sure it was real.
Once confirmed, she stroked her fingers over it lovingly and gave the smile I hadn’t realized I’d missed seeing until this moment.
“I took the liberty of purchasing you a new dress, as you seem to have run out of options in your wardrobe.”
Her focus drifted my direction, like she’d just remembered I was still in the room. She peered at me with confusion and perhaps a grain of distrust. “You bought this?”