Funny how her parents were so worried I’d corrupt her, when she could probably convince me to kill a man with no more than a toss of her crazy Medusa hair.
A few days before summer vacation came to an end, I eavesdropped on the Roths again. This time, it was no accident. I was worried they wouldn’t let me spend next summer with Arya. I wanted to know where the wind was blowing. At this point, Arya was the closest thing to happiness I’d ever achieved, and I was willing to do some screwed-up things to keep our arrangement going.
I hid in Mrs. Roth’s closet while she was getting dressed for an event. Through the sliver of space beside the sliding door, I watched Mr. Roth tying his tie in front of the mirror.
“Did you know I caught him packing the leftovers Ruslana usually throws out and taking them home without asking?” He flipped the tie’s tail and tugged the knot upward. I followed his every movement, taking notes. I’d decided earlier that summer I was going to have a job that required you to wear more than sweatpants. “Course, I didn’t say anything. Can you imagine the headline if it ever got out? Hedge fund tycoon denies the poor help’s boy his scraps? Pfft.”
“Deary me.” Mrs. Roth was on the other side of the walk-in space, so I couldn’t see her. She didn’t sound interested. She was never interested in her husband. Conrad continued anyway.
“You know what Ruslana told me? She said over the weekends, he shines shoes on the corner outside of Nordstrom. Puts them out of business by charging half the price. And last year, well, he got his hands on a few Nike knockoffs and sold them around his school. That, she didn’t volunteer. I found out all by myself.”
“You looked into him?” Mrs. Roth said, snorting. She liked to show she hated her husband. “Darling, you have too much free time on your hands. Maybe find another lover to keep you occupied? Oh, and your obsession with your daughter is quite off putting. I’m here too, you know.”
This was not good. Not good at all. My next summer with Arya was in jeopardy. I was going to have to ignore Arya in the next few days, even if it hurt her. Even if it hurt me.
“That kid has the kind of ambition that will land him either on Forbes’s richest list or in prison.” The scowl on Conrad Roth’s face indicated exactly where he preferred future me—and it wasn’t brushing shoulders with Bill Gates and Michael Dell.
Mrs. Roth came into view through the crack of her walk-in closet. She caught the tip of his tie and tugged hard, choking him a little. His lips came smashing down toward hers, but she dodged him at the last minute, laughing cruelly. He groaned in frustration.
“Wherever he ends up, it will not be with your daughter.”
“Our daughter,” he corrected.
“Is she? Ours, I mean?” Beatrice wondered aloud. “You seem to be under the impression she is all yours.”
She kissed him hard on the lips. Closemouthed. He cupped her butt. I looked away.
I liked Arya a lot, but I hated her parents.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ARYA
Present
The satisfying clinks of my Louboutins snapping over the rich marble floor reverberated through the walls of the Van Der Hout building on Madison Avenue. A cold smile touched my lips when I reached the receptionist.
“Cromwell and Traurig?” My fingernail, the same scarlet shade as the bottom of my heels, tapped over her desk impatiently after I handed her my ID. I couldn’t believe I was wasting my time on this.
The receptionist handed me a visitor badge and my ID back, and I slipped both into my purse.
“That’d be floor thirty-three, ma’am, which requires access control. Please hold while I get someone to escort you.”
“No need to call someone down, Sand. I’m on my way up.” A baritone so low and deep it slithered into my veins boomed behind my back.
“Hey, boss,” the receptionist squeaked, her professional demeanor melting like ice cream on hot asphalt. “New suit? Gray is definitely your color.”
Curious and a little put off by the flirt-fest, I turned around and came face to face with one of the most attractive men to grace planet Earth—past, present, and future. A carved Greek god in an Armani suit. Dimpled chin and eyes the color of a kingfisher. A walking, talking bottle of premium DNA, and if that wasn’t enough, he oozed enough testosterone to drown a baseball field. I didn’t even know if he was classically beautiful. It looked like his nose had been moved back into place unprofessionally after being broken, and his jawline was a little too square. But he reeked of confidence and money, two forms of kryptonite in Manhattan’s oversaturated dating pool. Despite myself, I felt my cheeks flushing. When was the last time I’d blushed? Probably when I was a preteen.