Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways)

Present

“Are you sure you’re going to eat this muffin?” Mother—or just Beatrice, since she wasn’t hot on a woman in her early thirties referring to her as Mom publicly—glanced from behind her menu, twisting her mouth disapprovingly.

My father sat beside her, silently slathering a piece of toast with butter. Maintaining eye contact with Beatrice, I took a large bite of the orange-and-cranberry muffin in my hand, crumbs tumbling down on my mint-green Gucci dress. “Looks that way, Bea.”

We were sitting at the Columbus Circle Inn, a charming restaurant in pastel colors with blown glass flowers, for Sunday brunch. Beatrice Roth didn’t see me very often. She had committees and charities and luncheons to run, but she did once a year, when we went to Aaron’s grave for the anniversary of his death. It was tradition to have brunch afterward. While every year of my twin brother’s loss was punctuated with an exclamation point, I couldn’t remember the last time my mother had treated my birthday as more than just a comma.

“You need to make sure you maintain your figure, Arya. You’re not twenty anymore.” Mom readjusted her new diamond earrings for the sole purpose of drawing attention to them.

I rarely saw my mother, even though I lived right down the block from her. And whenever I did see her, she always had something unkind to say. She was disgusted with my lack of desire to become a kept woman. In her opinion, I worked too hard, exercised too little, and talked politics too often. All in all, I was a dazzling failure as a socialite.

“I’ll keep that in mind when I’m on the lookout for a misogynist husband who requires a no-brain and no-appetite trophy wife.”

“Must you be so crass all the time?” She took a sip of her gin and diet tonic.

“Must I? No. Do I? Sure, when I’m in the mood.”

“Leave her alone, Bea,” my father warned tiredly.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” She shot him a look before returning her attention to me. “This attitude of yours is not doing this family any favors. Your father tells me you pushed Amanda Gispen’s lawyer to the edge. Practically baited him to go to trial.”

“Beatrice!” my father roared. He had apologized for that day at the hearing, and I’d accepted, although something had broken between us since then. A fragile trust we had restored when I was fifteen.

I choked on my muffin as she continued, with an air of irritation. “Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t put more hours and resources into trying to spin this in the media.”

“Actually, I’ve been working nonstop on garnering positive press. Not an easy task, considering the allegations he is facing. There’s only so much I can do before the trial starts. Also”—I turned to my father—“I spoke to someone whose opinion I value, and he suggested you hire a female litigator as a part of your team. Apparently the jurors will respond favorably to a woman.”

Dad took a sip of his sangria. “Thank you, Arya. Your job is to make me look good, not give me legal advice.”

“You said I needed to help you more,” I challenged.

“Yes, in your area of expertise.”

“Well, don’t you think—”

Our conversation was interrupted by the waitress, who placed our quiches, Bloody Marys, and eggs Benedict on the table. We all paused until she was out of earshot. When she was gone, he began talking before I could finish my sentence.

“Look, I’m not interested in hiring any other lawyer, female or not. It’s going to look like we’re desperate.” He began cutting into his spinach quiche furiously.

“We are desperate.” My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

“That’s not something I’d like Christian Miller to see.”

“Oh, now you care about the optics?” I cried out, knowing all of this could’ve been prevented if Dad had been a little less brash when he’d fired Amanda. Assuming everything else she’d said wasn’t true, which was a hypothesis I found more unlikely with each passing day. Also, I honestly didn’t want to care what Christian thought. If I allowed myself to dwell on it, I’d crawl into a hole and die of humiliation from his rejection at Solstices’ sauna. He and Claire were probably having a good laugh about it. That was fine. It wasn’t like Miller’s opinion kept me up at night.

“There’s no sin greater than hubris, Dad. Pride is a luxury you cannot afford right now,” I said measuredly, trying another angle.

“Arya, I’m not going to make a last-minute change just because some nameless friend of yours told you I should do so.” My father tossed his napkin over the table, standing up. “On that note, I think it’s time you upped your game. You’ve been following me around like a lost puppy and doing very little so far to help me get out of this.”

Get out of this? He thought I had the agency to help him get off the hook?

“My bad. Let me go look for my magic Your-Honor-he-is-innocent wand.” I wasn’t sure how Dad and I had gotten where we were right now. My mother looked between us like we were two strangers interrupting her brunch.

He shook his head. “I’ll see you at home, Beatrice. Arya.” He dipped his head, got up, and left. I sat there, speechless, while my mother took another sip of her G&T. She was hardly affected by how upset Dad was. Then again, I hadn’t seen my parents act like a normal couple even once. Their relationship looked more like that of two siblings who didn’t like each other very much.

“Do you think he did it?” I blurted out.

My mother’s seamless demeanor didn’t crack. In fact, she continued dissecting her eggs Benedict with her fork and knife and took a small bite of her food. “Arya, please. Your father has definitely had his fair share of affairs, but all of them were consensual. These women flung themselves at him shamelessly. I’m sure he and Amanda enjoyed each other’s company at some point and she expected more compensation after he discarded her for a newer model.”

“He cheated on you?” But I already knew the answer to that question.

My mother laughed throatily, tearing off a miniscule piece of sourdough bread and popping it between her scarlet lips. “Cheated, cheating, will cheat. You choose the tense. But I wouldn’t use that term, exactly. Cheating implies I care. I haven’t had an interest in fulfilling my marital obligations in a while. It was always understood that if he wanted female affection, he’d have to seek it elsewhere.”

“Why didn’t you get a divorce?” I spit out, anger humming beneath my skin. I was under no illusion that my parents had a happy marriage, but I’d thought they were semifunctional.

“Because,” she droned, “why should we go through that horrible, tacky mess when we have an understanding?”

“Where’s your pride?”

“Where’s his?” she asked, almost cheerfully. “Virtues don’t age well in upper society. You think slipping in and out of strange women’s beds like a thief is more honorable than my sitting at home and knowing about it?”

My reality as I knew it came tumbling down. I wouldn’t say I put Dad on a pedestal, but I definitely viewed him through rose-colored glasses. Now I wondered what else my parents were keeping from me.

“How many affairs did he have?” I rearranged myself in my seat, feeling a rash coming my way.

Mom waved a hand dismissively. “Six? Seven? Serious mistresses, I mean. Oh, who knows? I wasn’t aware of Amanda, but there were others. His infidelity started early on. Before you and your brother were born, in fact. But after Aaron died . . .”

My heart cracked. Not breaking all the way but enough that she was human and lovable in that moment, not just the woman who’d ignored my existence from the day she’d lost my brother.

“That’s terrible.”

My mother smiled delicately. “Is it? He’s been a wonderful father to you all these years when I could barely look at you. You remind me too much of your brother.”

Was that why she hated me? Why she ignored my existence?

“He never demanded a thing from me, even when it was clear I was no longer the woman he fell in love with. Is it terrible of him to seek love somewhere else or simply natural?”

“What he is being accused of has nothing to do with love.”

Mom mulled it over. “Your father is a twisted man. Can be, anyway.”

“Do you think he is capable of all the things they accuse him of?” I tried holding her gaze, but it was vacant. Empty. No one was home beyond Beatrice Roth’s emerald-green eyes. “Of sexually harassing someone?”

My mother signaled for the check, not meeting my stare. “My, it’s getting chilly. Let’s continue this some other time, shall we?”

“Ari?” Whitley, our office manager, popped her head from behind her Mac screen the following day at work. “There’s someone downstairs to see you.”

I double-clicked on my digital planner, frowning. “I don’t have any meetings until three.” Even that was in SoHo, a few blocks down from my office.

Jillian flashed me an inquisitive look from across the room, as did Hailey, our in-house graphic designer. Whitley nibbled on her cuticle, pinning the intercom phone between her shoulder and ear. “He’s downstairs.”

“Does he have a name?” I arched an eyebrow.

“I’m sure he does.”

“Now’s the time to ask what it is.”

Whitley ducked her head down, asking the person buzzing to come up what his name was. She tilted her head so she could see me beyond her screen. “Christian Miller. He says you’ll be happy to see him.”

My stomach flipped nervously, and a can of butterflies cracked open, filling it with velvety, flappy wings.

“He’s lying.”

She relayed my reply to him, then listened to what he said and laughed.

“He says he knew you’d say that but that he has information you’d like to know.”

“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

I half-heartedly patted my hair into submission, grabbed my phone and sunglasses, and headed for the stairway. Since there was zero chance I was going to enjoy this conversation, I decided to get it over with. No doubt Christian was here to hit me with more bad news. Question was—how did he know where I worked if he’d tossed my business card the day we’d met at the Brewtherhood?

I took the stairs two at a time. Christian waited on the curb, playing with a matchbook, talking on the phone. When he saw me, he lifted his finger up, in no rush to finish his conversation. Only after he gave one of his associates a detailed explanation of how he wanted them to file a motion to compel something in court, he turned off his cell and tucked it back into his breast pocket, whirling to look at me like I was three-day-old moldy takeout he’d just found staring back at him from the kitchen sink.

“Ms. Roth. How are you?”

“Good, until about five minutes ago.” I slid my sunglasses over my nose. “Now I’m wondering what fresh hell you’ve prepared especially for me.”

“You wound me.” He produced a cigar, speaking in a tone that very much didn’t sound wounded. “I would never prepare fresh hell especially for you. Although you are about to be delivered a generous piece of it.”

“Get it over with, Miller.”

“I wanted to tell you in person before you found out through the grapevine. Those lawyers your father hired seem about as competent as a pet rock and can’t even seem to slow the speed at which the trial date is moving.” He lit the cigar. Tragically, even while puffing the stench straight to my face, he looked more like an Esquire cover model than the antihero in a mobster film.

“Four more women stepped forward and decided to join Amanda Gispen’s lawsuit. One has some colorful, very intimate pictures your father had sent her. Not something you’d like to see yourself but something I’m obligated to share with others to zealously represent my clients, which means including this in the evidence, so the photos will be presented, enlarged, in the courtroom during trial.”

Pressing a hand against the redbrick building of my office, I inhaled a jagged breath, trying not to appear as devastated as I was. This was getting out of control. There were now five women testifying against him? And there were pictures?

Did he do it? Could he?

Now I knew why my mother had said she didn’t want to know. The answer was terrifying. One complaint was something I could rearrange in my head. Make excuses for, in the absence of context and other victims. Five were problematic. Especially as, being a woman myself, I knew how overwhelming the prospect was of sitting on a stand in front of seasoned lawyers, getting grilled and questioned about something so deeply triggering. I felt my knees go weak.

Christian studied me intently, like he was waiting for the penny to drop. “This thing is not going away, Ari.”

“Ari?” I jumped, my eyes widening.

“Arya,” he amended, flushing slightly. “Your life’s about to implode if you don’t step away from this.”

“Seems like it, and you’re all too eager for the fireworks part. Are you expecting me to drop my own father as a PR client?” I tossed my hair to one shoulder.

“No, I’m expecting him to drop your firm and spare you the awkward conversation. Ask Jillian to drop him if you don’t feel comfortable doing it.” How did he know about Jillian? Did he genuinely think I believed he was worried for me and mine? “You should do the right thing by taking a step back from this. Though come to think about it, I have no idea why you haven’t done so already.”

“Don’t pretend like you know me,” I bit out. “And don’t exhale smoke on me.” I grabbed the cigar from between his fingers, snapped it in two, and dumped it in a nearby trash can.

“You’re crazy,” he said, but his face showed amusement, not anger. He enjoyed riling me up. Got off on my wrath. “Which, by the way, I find oddly delightful.”

“Don’t flirt.”

“Why not?” he asked. Ugh. Good question. The attraction was maddening.

“Claire?” I asked tiredly.

He shook his head. “Firmly in the past as of last week.”

“Sorry to hear,” I said, in monotone.

He grinned. “No, you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m pretty focused on the shit show called my family life right now.”

“Understandable.” He couldn’t stop staring at me, and vice versa.

“I appreciate the heads-up, Mr. Miller.”

“The trial will be fast. Judge Lopez doesn’t want a spectacle. The evidence is overwhelming. This should be a quick wrap-up.”

“Now would be a good time to stop talking.” I swiveled toward the entrance door, ready to leave.

“Arya?”

Was he deaf?

I turned back to face him, a plastic smile on my face. “Yes, Christian?”

“Don’t go to court next week. There will be things there you don’t want to see. Not to mention it’s career suicide for you.” His voice was soft, his eyes not as cold as they had been days before, at the sauna.

“Some things are worth dying for. He’s my father.”

“Yes. Your father. Not you. As soon as the motion for joinder is granted, the media will be all over this, and no cute picture of your dad in a hospital kissing babies is going to make this go away. Investors will pull their money from his hedge fund. The board will probably make him resign. The charges have changed, and so has the punishment, the very fabric of the case. Conrad Roth is not coming back to Wall Street. If you still want a career, now’s the time to distance yourself from him.”

“Would you turn your back on your parent like that?” I tapered my eyes, searching his.

Christian smiled sadly, looking down. His thumb rolling over his matchbook. “I would run over my parents with a semitrailer for a lukewarm cup of tea. And I’m not even a tea person. So I’m not sure I’m the right person to be asked this question.”

Something about what he said made me feel raw, naked. Guilty.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

He shook his head, finding my gaze. “No. You have your own family to worry about.”

“Yes. And I choose to give my father the benefit of the doubt.”

“There is no doubt. His crimes are objective reality, fully recorded and witnessed. I’m not the murderer of your father’s good reputation. I’m merely the coroner. The body was already cold when I got here. Plus, there’s also another matter to consider.”

“And that is?”

“I can’t ask you out as long as you’re linked to the case.”

My mouth fell open. Was I more angry or shocked? I couldn’t tell, but I knew I would punch him if my family weren’t already swimming in bad press. That was beyond the pale. The arrogance of him was shocking.

“You want to date me?” I spit out.

“I wouldn’t go that far. I’d like to sleep with you and am willing to check all the civilized boxes to get from point A to B.”

“Did you use that line on C—”

“No. I didn’t have to.”

I tipped my shades down, half smiling. “Funny, you didn’t seem so eager to be with me when we were in the sauna together.”

“The sauna was a badly plotted scheme. Not to mention I didn’t want to be within the gray area of infidelity. Now that’s out of the way . . .”

“You don’t even like me.” I threw my arms in the air, exasperated. I began pacing the sidewalk, ignoring the curious gazes of people around us. Christian looked more than comfortable, like he was used to pushing people into corners.

“I don’t have to like you to want to bed you. I’d think you’d be familiar with the concept of hate fuck by your fairly advanced age.”

“And how would you know what my fairly advanced age may be?” I stopped, turning to look at him. I saw it then. Just a flash of an oh-crap expression, of someone who’d said something he shouldn’t have, before his face smoothed back to normal.

“I know everything about everyone concerning my cases.”

“If you think I’ll sleep with someone who is trying to make my father go bankrupt, you need a reality check with a side of therapy.”

“So it’s a yes, then.”

“Don’t come here again, Christian.”

With that, I turned around and pushed the entrance door to my building.

I went back to the office, tripping over the stairs at least three times. My mind was jumbled. With Christian, with Dad, and with my parents’ Molotov cocktail of a marriage. When I pushed the door open, I was met with Jillian’s stony face. She was holding her briefcase, her lipstick freshly applied, signaling me she was on her way out.

“You forgot about our meeting with ShapeOn. They just called us saying you are thirty minutes late.” Jillian tried to keep her voice down but failed, as she did often when she was upset. I guessed I had forgotten to put it in my planner. Crap. That was the second client I’d messed up this month.

“I . . .” I trailed off, thinking of something to say. Jillian shook her head, pushing past me as she went out the door. I stood rooted to the threshold, wondering what the hell happened.

I tried to reach my father on his cell for the rest of the day. He didn’t pick up. The truth was closing in on me like an envelope, sealed around me one inch at a time.

By the time I left work for the day, I decided desperate times called for desperate measures and called my mother. She answered on the third ring, sounding frostier than usual.

“Arya. You are calling me out of nowhere, so I’m going to go ahead and assume you want to ask about your father.”

Hello to you too, Mother.

“I don’t remember you calling to check in on me either,” I replied, because frankly, I was fed up with her attitude. “And yes. I am, in fact, calling to ask about Dad. He’s not answering.”

I heard her moving across her grand living room, her designer slippers gliding over the marble. Her pocket-size dog was barking in the background.

“Your father has been holed up in his study with his lawyers all day, conducting a meeting I want absolutely nothing to do with. The new evidence and plaintiffs will definitely make things more difficult. Can you imagine what I’ll have to face when I go to the country-club luncheon next week? I’m thinking of canceling the entire thing. Dick pics, Arya! How absolutely tacky.”

Dick pics. That was one term I’d never thought I’d hear my mother say.

Again, she made this about her, not him. I reached my apartment building’s door, punched in the code, and pushed it open.

“Do you think he did it?” I repeated my question from our brunch. Only this time, I wasn’t met with amusement anymore but somber silence. I never could read Mother. Not enough to know what she was thinking, anyway. If she had an obvious answer to my question, I didn’t know.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? We’re his family. We must stick by him.”

Must we? I thought. Even if he hurt others badly? Maliciously?

I pushed my apartment door open, then took off my heels and stared at the antique shelves on my walls. They were full of pictures of me and Dad from vacations, charity balls, and holidays. None with my mother. She never tagged along for anything. Dad had raised me all by himself.

“The financial implications are another thing to take into consideration.” Mom’s voice drifted from the phone I was holding. “The company will head straight to bankruptcy if Conrad doesn’t step down, and even if he does, it might be too late. Not to mention they’re suing him for most of his net worth. I can’t believe he did this to us.”

“Let me sleep on this, Mom.”

“Okay. Oh . . . and Arya?” My mother sniffed on the other end. I stilled, waiting for her next words. “Don’t be a stranger. You can call me, too, you know. I’m still your mother.”

Hardly, I thought.

You were never my anything at all.