The Takeover (The Miles High Club Book 2)

Six months later

I read the invitation in front of me.

MASTER YOUR MIND.

Oh God, what a crock of crap.

I need to get out of this—I honestly can’t think of anything worse.

“I think this is going to be great for you,” Marley says.

I look up to my trusty best friend as she does her best sales pitch, trying to push me out of my comfort zone. I know her heart is in the right place, but this is just going too far. “Marley, I can tell you straight up, right now, that if you think a motivational conference with all those crazies is going to help me, you are more insane than I ever realized.”

“Stop it; it’s gonna be fantastic. You go away, regroup, and refocus, and you’ll come back refreshed, and the company and your life and everything else is all going to fall into place.”

I roll my eyes.

“Come on—can we at least agree that you need to change your mind-set?” she asks me as she sits on my desk.

“Possibly.” I sigh, dejected.

“And it’s not your fault you’re flat. You’ve been through so much: your husband’s unexpected death, caring for three boys, and struggling to keep the company afloat. It’s been hell. And realistically you’ve been fighting since Wade’s death five years ago.”

“Do you have to say it out loud? Sounds even more depressing.” I sigh again.

A knock sounds at my office door.

“Come in,” I call.

The door opens, and Gabriel smiles broadly. “Ready for lunch, Missy?” His eyes flick to Marley. “Hey, Marls.”

“Hi.” She smiles goofily.

I smile as well. “Mr. Ferrara.” I glance at my watch. “You’re early. Lunch isn’t for an hour. I thought you said two?”

“My meeting finished early, and I’m hungry. Let’s go now.”

I look over at the gorgeous Italian, tall, dark, and handsome in his designer suit. Gabriel Ferrara is a rock star in New York, but to me he is just a dear friend. He knew my late husband, and although I never met him when Wade was alive, he got in contact with me not long after his death. He owns one of the largest media companies in the world, and his building isn’t far from here. He gives me advice here and there, and we catch up for lunch when we can. It’s completely platonic between us—he’s a rock that I lean on from time to time.

“Gabe, tell Claire that she needs to go to this conference.” Marley sighs in exasperation.

He frowns as he looks between us. “All right . . . Claire, you need to go to this conference,” he repeats unenthusiastically. “Now let’s eat. Sushi awaits.”

Marley’s eyes find mine. “Can you just have a week off and go to Paris? Take some time for yourself. Get away from the kids. I can look after everything back here at the office. We had that cash injection—things are okay around here for the moment. Use the time to recharge.”

I exhale heavily. I know I need to pull myself out of this funk. My life is so dull; I’ve lost enthusiasm for everything. My life that was once wild and carefree has been replaced with animosity. Sometimes I’m so furious at Wade for leaving me with this mess that I tell him off in my head, as if he can hear me, and then afterward, I feel so guilty because I know he would have given anything to see his sons grow up and that leaving me would have never been his choice.

Life just isn’t fair sometimes.

They say that only the good die young—what about the best? Why did he have to go too?

“Go to the conference,” Marley urges me. “You are not going to lunch until you agree to this.”

“Hurry up, woman. Yes. It’s agreed; she’s going.” Gabriel tries to finish the conversation. When I don’t move, he exhales heavily and falls onto the couch.

“You know I don’t know how to do the motivational mumbo jumbo.” I stand and begin to pack files away. “The crap that they go on with is next-level batshit crazy.”

“I think you need some batshit crazy, because batshit broke isn’t a fun place to visit.” Marley sighs again.

I smirk.

“This is true.” Gabriel smiles as he scrolls through his phone.

I continue putting things away. This is true. Batshit broke is not somewhere I want to visit at all. I sit back in my chair and stare at my hopeful friend.

“Go, recharge. It’s in Épernay in the Champagne district of France, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t get any more beautiful than this, Claire. It’s a tax deduction; you either pay for this or pay it in taxes—the choice is yours. At the very least, you can get a massage every afternoon and then drink two liters of champagne every night with your gourmet dinner and fall into bed in a blissful stupor.”

“Épernay is beautiful,” Gabriel mutters, distracted. “I would go just for the location.”

“You’ve been there?” I ask him.

“A few times. I went with Sophia last summer,” he replies. “She loves it there.”

I imagine myself alone in a luxurious hotel room. It’s been so long since I’ve gotten away. Five years, actually. “Now, a gourmet dinner and champagne . . . that is tempting.”

“If the conference part of the trip is boring, just ditch it, and have a week to yourself in France. You need this break,” Marley says.

Gabriel stands. “Agreed. You’re going. Hurry up; I’m ravenous.”

I exhale heavily.

“Will you just go for me?” Marley takes my hand in hers. “Please.” She smiles sweetly and bats her eyelashes as she tries to be cute.

Oh God, she’s not going to let this go. “Fine.” I sigh. “I’ll go.”

She bounces off my desk and claps her hands in excitement. “Yes, this is going to be so good for you, Claire—just what you need.” She rushes toward the door. “I’m going to book flights now before you change your mind.”

I roll my eyes as I pick up my handbag. “I’m already dreading it.”

“Eep, I’m so excited.” She flaps her hands around and rushes out of the office.

“We going?” Gabriel asks.

“Yeah. I’m not feeling sushi, though.”

“Fine.” He holds his hand toward the door. “You choose, but make it fast. I’m about to faint.”

“Okay. Let’s go over the details,” Marley says as she sips her drink.

I nod as I take a bite of food. We are in a restaurant having lunch. It’s the day before I leave for my conference. “Your bags are packed.”

Marley gets out her diary and begins to read from her list.

“Uh-huh.”

She ticks the first checkbox on her list. “Hair done—tick.” She continues going through her list. “Appointments cleared,” she mumbles to herself as she reads through her list.

I keep eating my lunch, totally unexcited about the next week.

“Oh.” She frowns and looks up at me. “Did you get laser?”

I roll my eyes.

“There are a lot of hot opportunities at these kinds of conferences, Claire.”

“Are you kidding me?” I stare at her deadpan. “You want me to go to this conference so I can get laid?”

“Well.” She shrugs. “Why not?”

“Marley.” I drop my knife and fork with a clang. “Sex is the very last thing I want. I still feel very married to one man.”

Her face falls, and she puts her pen and paper down. “But you’re not, Claire.” She takes my hand over the table. “Wade died, honey. Five years ago now . . . and I know for a fact that he wouldn’t want you living alone forever.”

My eyes drop to the plate of food in front of me.

“He would want you to be living life to the fullest . . . for both of you.”

I feel a lump in my throat begin to build.

“He would want you to be happy and cared for . . . loved.”

I twist my fingers together on my lap. “I just . . .” My voice trails off.

“You just what?”

“I just don’t think I’ll ever move on, Marl,” I say sadly. “How could any man ever live up to Wade Anderson?”

“Nobody will ever replace him, Claire. He’s your husband.” She smiles softly. “I’m just saying go on a few dates. Have some fun . . . that’s all.”

“Maybe,” I lie.

“You need to take your wedding rings off and put them on the other hand.”

Tears instantly threaten at the very thought.

“No men are coming near you because they think you’re married.”

“I’m happy with that.”

“Wade’s not. And when he finds someone that he thinks is worthy of you, he will send him. But you need to be ready.”

I stare at my beautiful friend through tears.

“He’s still with you. He will always be with you. Trust him to watch over you. You need to let him go, Claire.”

My eyes hold hers.

“You didn’t die in the accident with him. Live while you can.”

I drop my head and stare at my plate on the table, my appetite suddenly diminished.

“I’m going to book you for some laser this afternoon.”

I pick up my knife and fork once more. “They’re going to need a machete. I’ve been rocking the full-bush vibe.”

She giggles. “Yeah, that mess has got to go.”

I pull my car up and stare at the house in front of me.

Our house.

The one that Wade and I built together—the one we planned on getting old in.

Our small patch of paradise on Long Island. Wade was adamant that his children grow up in a semirural area. He grew up in New York City himself, and all he ever wanted for his children was a large patch of land for them to play freely on whenever they wanted.

We bought a block of land and built our home. It’s not flashy and fancy. It’s made of weatherboard and has a large veranda around the edge, a big garage, and a driveway with a basketball hoop. Four bedrooms, two living areas, and a big rustic kitchen.

It’s so Wade. At the time we could have afforded much better, but when it came down to it, he wanted a country home filled with laughter and children.

And that’s what we had.

My mind goes back to that early morning when the police knocked on my door.

“Are you Mrs. Claire Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry; there’s been an accident.”

The hours that followed were monumental and painful. They are so clear in my mind—the way I felt, the words I said, what I was wearing.

The way my heart was breaking.

I get a vision of myself crying over him in the morgue and whispering to his lifeless body, offering him an eternal promise as I brushed the hair back from his face.

“I’ll raise our children as you wanted. I’ll carry on what we started. I’ll keep all your dreams alive . . . you have my word. I love you, my darling.”

My face screws up in tears, and I snap my thoughts back to the present. It doesn’t do me any good letting that memory linger. If I let myself go back there, it’s like I lose him all over again.

The pain never goes away, but some days it feels like it might just kill me. I’m an empty shell. My body functions as it should, but I’m barely breathing.

I’m suffocating in a world of responsibilities.

The promises I made my husband in the hours after his death have come at a heavy cost.

I don’t go out at night, I don’t socialize anymore, I work my fingers to the bone . . . both at home and in the office.

Devoted to keeping Wade’s dreams alive, to keeping his children loved and protected. To keeping his company afloat. It’s hard, and it’s lonely, and damn it, I just wish he’d walk through the fucking door and save me.

Marley’s words from earlier today run through my mind.

“He’s still with you. He will always be with you. Trust him to watch over you. You need to let him go, Claire.”

In the pit of my stomach, I know she’s right. Like a song hanging in the wind, her words are lingering with me. Chipping away at my sensibility.

I stare into space as an empty sadness surrounds me . . . he’s not coming back.

He’s never coming back.

It’s time; I know it’s time.

That doesn’t make it any less painful.

I couldn’t imagine living without him. I don’t know how I’m doing it.

I don’t want to have to learn to.

I stare down at my wedding rings and grip them with my fingers as I prepare myself to do the unthinkable.

I blink through the tears; a suffocating weight is on my chest, and I slowly pull them off. They catch on my knuckle, and finally they slide free.

I close my hand into a fist. It feels light without the weight of my rings, and I stare down at the white band left on my bare finger. The sun’s reminder of what I have lost.

I hate my hand without his ring.

I hate my life without his love.

Overwhelmed with emotion, I put my head down onto the steering wheel . . . and for the first time in a long time, I allow myself to cry.

I throw the last pair of shoes into my suitcase. I leave tomorrow for the conference. “I think that’s it.”

“Did you get your toothbrush?” Patrick asks as he lies on his stomach on my bed, beside my suitcase. My youngest child is also my wisest. He never forgets a thing. “Not yet. I still have to use it. I’ll pack it in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“So Grandma will be here when you get home from school,” I remind him.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he says with an eye roll. “And I have to call you the moment Harry’s naughty or if Fletcher gets short tempered.” He sighs as he recites my orders.

“Yes, that’s right.” Little do his brothers know, but Patrick is also my tattletale. I know what his brothers have done before they even finish doing it.

I have three sons. Fletcher is seventeen and has taken on the unofficial job as my personal bodyguard. Harry is thirteen, and I swear to God he’s either going to end up a Nobel Prize–winning genius or in jail. He is the most mischievous human being I know, always getting into some kind of trouble—mostly at school.

And then there’s my baby, Patrick, just nine years old. He’s sweet and gentle and sensible and everything his brothers are not. He’s also my biggest worry. He was only four when his father died, and he missed out the most.

He doesn’t even remember his dad.

He has photos of him strewed all over his room. He hero-worships him. I mean, we all do. But Patrick’s obsession is almost over the top. He asks me to tell him a story about his father at least twice a day. He smiles and listens intently as I relay past events and tell him stories about Wade. He knows all of Wade’s favorite meals at restaurants and then always wants to order the same. He sleeps in one of his dad’s old T-shirts. I do this too, but I would never let on that I do.

To be honest, I kind of dread story time. We all laugh and make jokes over the memory. Then the children go to bed and fall into a blissful slumber, and my mind goes over the scene time after time.

Wishing we could do it all over again.

Wade still lives here with us, just not in flesh and blood.

He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on.

I’m stuck in the middle, halfway between heaven and hell.

Madly in love with my husband’s ghost.

“Okay, read out my list,” I continue.

“Bus . . .” Patrick frowns as he reads. “Bus-in-ess.”

“Business clothes.”

“Yes.” He smiles proudly that he nearly got it.

I mess up his dark hair that is curling up at the ends. “Check.”

He ticks the word. “Cas . . .” He frowns, as if stuck.

“Casual clothes?” I ask.

He nods.

“Check.”

“Pj’s.” He hunches his shoulders in excitement. “I knew that one.”

“I know—look at you all growing up and reading.” Patrick has dyslexia, and reading is hard for him, but we’re getting there. I check the suitcase. “Got them.”

He ticks and then goes to the next item on the list. “Shoes?”

“Check.”

“Ha . . . ha . . .” He frowns, deep in concentration.

“Hair dryer?”

“Yes.”

“Got it.”

“Dresses.”

I puff air into my cheeks and look in my wardrobe. “Hmm, what dresses do I have?” I flick through my clothes on the hangers. “I only have going-out kinds of dresses. These aren’t really work-conference outfits. Hmm . . .” I pull out a black one and hold it up against my body and look in the mirror.

“That’s a pretty dress. Where did you wear that with Dad?”

“Well.” I frown. I have no idea, but I have to make something up like I always do. “Um, we went for pizza, and then we went dancing.”

He smiles goofily, and I know he’s imagining what I’ve just told him. “What kind of pizza did you eat?”

“Pepperoni.”

His eyes widen. “Can we have pizza tonight?”

“If you want.”

“Yes.” He punches the air. “We can have pizza tonight,” he screams to his brothers as he runs from the room. “I’m having pepperoni, like Dad.”

I smile sadly. He would be sorely disappointed if he knew Wade would have had extra-chili-and-anchovy pizza, but I’ll let him have his pepperoni pizza with a huge smile on his face.

I take a few of the dresses and throw them into my suitcase; they’ll have to do. I don’t have time to buy anything else.

I stare down at my packed suitcase and put my hands on my hips. “Okay, I think that’s it. Conference, here I come.”

The car pulls into the grand entrance of the Château de Makua. “Wow,” I whisper as I peer out the window. I’ve flown almost eight hours, and then my driver picked me up, and it took us another three hours to drive here. I’m dead tired after my early start but suddenly filled with nerves.

The driver takes my suitcase from the trunk, and I tip him and stare up at the big building in front of me.

MIND MASTERS

Even the name of this conference is ridiculous. I wheel my suitcase in and wait in the line at reception.

The building is lovely, old fashioned, and otherworldly. It’s luxurious and opulent and feels like I have stepped back in time. The foyer is grand, and a huge circular staircase is the center feature.

“Next?” the concierge asks as everyone shuffles forward. I look around at the people in front of me in the line. I wonder if they are attending the conference.

There are two girls who look like Barbie dolls. Huge silicone lips—and how do they think those ridiculous huge eyelashes look good? Don’t their eyes hurt with something that heavy on their lids like that?

One has waist-length bleached-blonde hair with extensions that you can see at the roots. Ugh . . . so tacky. The other one has a dark, curly, thick mane. They’re both wearing next to nothing and are done up to the nines. I tighten my ponytail and pull down my linen shirt, feeling extraordinarily uncool. Damn it, I should have worn something a bit swankier.

The blonde notices me standing behind her. “Oh, hi. Are you attending Mind Masters?”

“Yes.” I give an awkward smile. “Are you?”

“Yes,” she shrieks. “Oh my God, I’m so excited. I’m Ellie. What do you do?”

“Um.” I shrug, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. “I’m Claire. I work for a company.”

“I’m running my own empire,” Ellie says as she widens her eyes in excitement.

“Empire,” I repeat, amused. “In what?” I ask.

“I’m an influencer.”

I stare at her as my brain tries to keep up. Oh God no . . . one of those twits who gets paid for posting fake crap. “Really? Great.”

“I travel the world and model bikinis.” She smiles. “If I post an image of myself, the world goes into meltdown.”

I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. Is she for real? “I . . . bet they do.”

The dark-haired girl in front of her turns toward us and laughs. “Snap, girlfriend.”

“Oh my God . . . you too?” Ellie gasps.

They both burst into laughter. “I’m Angel,” the dark-haired girl introduces herself. “I’m going to be an influencer too.”

“You haven’t started yet?” Ellie asks in a condescending tone.

“Well.” Angel shrugs. “Not technically. I still have a few movies left on my contract, but as soon as I finish those, I’m totally into it—all systems go.”

“Movies?” Ellie gasps. “What kind of movies?”

“I’m a porn actress. You may have seen my latest, Anal Mistress with Johnny Rocket Cock.”

Ellie’s eyes widen, “Oh. My. God.” She gasps. “I totally recognize you.” They begin to laugh and bounce on the spot in excitement.

Oh hell.

I wonder what Johnny Rocket Cock does to her ass.

Or what anyone does to anyone’s ass, actually. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched that I’ve completely forgotten everything, and even when I was, it was never hard-and-fast porn-style sex. It was loving and tender. The kind of sex that married people have.

Safe and real, a world away from being an anal mistress.

What the actual fuck has Marley gotten me into here?

I turn toward the man behind me. Has he heard any of this?

“Hi.” He smiles.

“Hello.”

He’s blond and normal looking. He seems nice. “Are you here for the conference?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Me too.” He holds out his hand to shake mine. “I’m Nelson Barrett.”

“I’m Claire Anderson.” I smile.

“I’m a computer scientist.” He looks around at our surroundings. “I’m so out of my comfort zone here it’s not even funny.”

“Me too.” Relief fills me. Someone normal. “I work in media.”

“Lovely to meet you, Claire.”

“You too.”

We both turn to the front and watch the antics of the girls. They are loud and animated and so excited to be here. I smile as I watch them; their enthusiasm is childlike and lovely to watch.

I make an idle observation that enthusiasm like that seems to dissipate around the age of twenty-eight. I predict they have five good years left before life begins to really fuck them up the ass. Relationship breakdowns and debt—that’s if they can find a decent person to fall in love with.

I shake my head in disgust.

Look at me being a downer . . . maybe I really do need to be here.

I’ve never been a negative person before. I hate this part of my personality that has surfaced in recent times.

I don’t even know myself anymore.

The line moves forward, and people begin to pile into the foyer behind us. Men and women, all excited entrepreneurs. Apart from Nelson, I think I’m the oldest here.

“Oh my God, we have to go out tonight,” Angel says.

“Yes,” Ellie says as she jumps up and down. “Oh my God, I’m so pumped.” She turns to me and Nelson. “Clara, you have to come out tonight.” I smile at her botching my name.

“I couldn’t keep up tonight.” I smile. “Next time, for sure.”

“Okay.” She turns back to Angel. “Where will we go?”

I turn and force a smile at Nelson.

“I wonder how many films they make tonight for free,” he whispers.

I giggle. “I know. Lucky boys. They might not survive it.”

“I know for certain that I wouldn’t,” Nelson mutters under his breath.

We both chuckle and shuffle up the line, and Ellie begins to check in.

Another four men walk in behind me, all older and quite distinguished looking.

Hmm, maybe this is okay after all.

We all chat in the line for a while. Turns out the guys behind us who just arrived are app developers. I don’t feel so silly now. Normal people seem to be here too.

A woman walks in, and all the men’s heads turn. She’s blonde and beautiful. Stylish and trendy and aged around late twenties, at a guess. “Hello, is this the line to check in?” she asks me.

“Yes.” I smile.

“Are you here for the conference?” she asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“Me too.” She holds her hand out to shake mine. “I’m Melissa.”

“Hi, Melissa. I’m Claire.”

“Nice to meet you.”

The line shuffles forward again, and then another two staff members come to reception, so we all veer into different lines.

Nelson comes up behind me. “See you later. We’re having dinner in the restaurant downstairs at seven if you want to come, Claire.”

“Oh.” I turn to him, startled. “Thank you, but I have work to do. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask.

“Yes, for sure.” He smiles. “Have a good night.”

I turn back to the concierge with a smile. I feel more comfortable than I thought I would. I think this may actually be okay.

I sit in the swanky conference room with 120 other people. The room is abuzz with electricity. They’re all chattering and have their notepads and other papers with them.

Everyone here is so pumped to try to better themselves.

Me . . . well, I’m just here for the champagne and to have an excuse to take a holiday by myself. But anyway, yay for the pumped ones, I guess.

A man comes onto the stage, and everyone claps and cheers. He holds his hands out and smiles broadly. Hmm . . . I wonder who he is.

He waits for the cheering to die down, and he smiles broadly again. “Welcome,” he says. He has a small microphone attached to his shirt. “Welcome to Mind Masters. A place where you will find a better version of yourself.” His voice is loud and echoing, as if he’s giving a sermon or something. “Are you ready?” he cries.

Everyone cheers.

Oh God . . . so over the top. I clap along with the room as they all lose their shit. They are all standing and laughing as they clap. I frown as I look around at them . . . honestly, calm down, everyone.

This is like a fucking cult.

I glance down at my phone as I contemplate filming this shit for Marley. Even she wouldn’t believe it.

“And now, I would like to introduce our opening speaker. Someone that I know a lot of you follow on the circuit. A rock star in the motivational-speaking circuit and the developer of workshops that are changing the lives of people from all walks of life. He’s here for one day only, so please, without further ado—with his cutting-edge strategy, How to get what you want—welcome to the stage Tristan Miles.”

The air leaves my lungs as the crowd goes wild.

Tristan Miles walks out in a navy designer suit and his just-fucked dark wavy hair. He smiles broadly, holds his hands in the air, claps with the audience, and then takes a bow. Everyone is going crazy and yelling and clapping.

My eyes nearly bulge from their sockets . . . what the fuck?

I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears as everyone else in the room disappears.

My fury begins to pump. I can’t even stand the sight of him—well, that’s not completely true. Damn asshole is a double-edged sword: gorgeous to look at, impossible to tolerate.

“Hello, everyone,” he says in the same echoing voice. “Congratulations.” He smiles as he waits for silence. Goose bumps scatter across my skin at the sound of his deep voice. He has a slight twang of an accent, a little upper-crust English mixed in with New Yorker. He sounds distinguished and intelligent—I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s sexy as fuck.

Ugh . . . I hate everything about him.

“Welcome, and thank you for coming. You have taken a very valuable step in your personal development.” He looks around the room at everyone as he speaks. “I, for one . . .” Our eyes meet, and he stops speaking as he stares at me and then blinks.

Fuck.

He quickly recovers. “I, for one, am excited for you.”

He keeps talking, but I can’t hear him. I can only hear adrenaline screaming through the rapids that are my bloodstream. Last time we spoke, he was intent on stealing Wade’s company from my sons.

I’m not sitting here and listening to this vile bloodsucker give a motivational speech.

He ruins family businesses for fun.

How pathetic.

Of course he’s presenting at a conference called Mind Masters. This is right up his pretentious alley. He thinks he is the mind master . . . what a joke.

I stand. “Excuse me,” I whisper to the person next to me. I begin to shuffle past the people in my row as they sit in their seats.

“Claire Anderson,” he calls from the stage.

My horrified eyes meet his.

“Sit back down.”

“I . . .” I take another step toward the exit.

“Claire,” he warns.

I glance around at the 120 pairs of eyes fixed firmly on me and then back up at him.

“I said sit. Back. Down.”