He never answered. “She’ll never move here. She took half my money…and now she took my son. I’d give her everything I had if she would just give me Derek.” He dragged his hands down his face again, so frustrated he couldn’t sit still.
I wanted to give him everything he wanted, just like I did with the rest of my clients. I wanted to wave my wand and pull off a miracle. The reason I was good at my job, becoming the director at such a young age, was because I really cared about the people. Others might be envious and jealous of their rich clients, but I saw them as regular people with problems just like everyone else. They just had different kinds of problems, rich people problems, so they actually suffered greater repercussions for their mistakes. “We’ll figure it out, Deacon.”
He ran his hand over the back of his head and down his neck. “I know you said you can do anything, but you can’t fix this. No one can fix this.”
Maybe. But I was definitely going to try.
I didn’t tell anyone what happened with Deacon, to protect his privacy, even among my coworkers.
Days had passed and I hadn’t interacted with him, but I thought about him often, the depressed single father who didn’t care about money, just his son. It explained his potent bitterness, the reason why he looked pissed off every second of the day. He probably even looked pissed off when he slept.
Now I felt bad for him.
Life had been so unkind to him.
My phone vibrated on the desk, Deacon’s name on the screen.
My heart raced at the sight of his name. I quickly took the call, assuming it was important. “It’s Cleo.”
As if nothing had happened, he barked orders again. “I need you to grab my laptop and deliver it to me at my office.”
I was disappointed he’d reverted to his coldness, but I didn’t indicate that in my tone. “Where’s your office?” I had no idea where he even worked because I tried not to Google my clients, not to view them the way the internet depicted them.
“Hamilton Pharmaceuticals.”
I raised an eyebrow, not expecting him to say that. He seemed like a stuffy suit who just crunched numbers on Wall Street or something. “Where’s your laptop?”
“Nightstand. I thought I put it in my bag last night. Guess not.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll tell my assistant you’re coming. Hand-deliver it to me. Give it to no one else.”
“Alright.” He’d told me that before, and I’d followed through.
He hung up without saying goodbye.
He was a little kinder to me…but only a smidge.
I rose from my chair. “Anna, I have to do something for Hamilton. Could you take care of Jim Scott for me? He’s expecting me to bring him the items he requested.” I pushed the bag toward her.
She grabbed it. “Yeah, I got it. Anything else?”
“No. I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes. Call me if you want me to pick up anything on the way back.” I took the elevator to his floor, let myself into his residence, and moved into his bedroom.
The bed was unmade, a couple ties lying on the edge of the bed as if he couldn’t decide what to wear that morning. His laptop was open on his nightstand, space gray and sleek. When I grabbed it by the edge, my thumb pressed down on a key, so the black screen lit up, showing the last item he’d been working on.
It was porn.
It wasn’t my place to judge, but I was at a moral crossroads. I had no idea what he was going to do with the laptop once he got it, if he would step into a meeting right away, hook up his computer to the sound system, and if he forgot the page was open, he could be humiliated.
So I closed out of it.
Sometimes I had to use my discretion, so I used it.
With New York traffic, it took me forty-five minutes just to reach his building, which was on the other side of the tunnel, outside of Manhattan. We had two company vans we used for deliveries, so I took one of those to make the trip.
It was a six-story gray building, sleek on the outside with a matching sign out front. The parking lot was full of cars and had a security check-in. Deacon must have given my name, because they let me through once I showed my ID.
I parked and carried the stuff inside.
When I glanced at the directory, I realized the place was a research facility.
2A Analytical Chemistry
2B Biochemical Analysis
2C Antibody Research
The list went on and on.
The corporate offices were at the top, where Deacon’s name was located.
Deacon Hamilton, MD. PhD. CEO.
I had no idea he was a doctor.
I took the elevator to the top floor and checked in with his assistant. “Hello, I’m Cleo Thompson. I’m Mr. Hamilton’s personal assistant. He asked me to drop off something.”