Chapter 45
1615words
A throat cleared. The floor creaked. Harsh light seared through my eyelids.
I swear, if this has anything to do with lobsters...
But it was something far worse. As I opened my eyes, I found myself in a room not with one Huntington man, but two.
"Mitchell!" I sprang to my feet in alarm, relieved that at least my dress had finally dried. "I'm so sorry—I wasn't expecting you!"
Dark eyes swept over me without a trace of a smile.
"Clearly."
Mitchell Huntington may have been Nicholas's biological father, but any resemblance between the two ended there. One was all charm and lightness, while the other exuded darkness, almost frighteningly so.
The first time I was summoned to corporate headquarters—yes, summoned—I waited for two hours in the lobby as a meeting ran overtime. It wasn't until I heard muted sobbing from a nearby conference room that I dared to venture down the hall. The door was ajar, and against my better judgment, I peeked inside.
After years of being unnerved by magazine covers and hurriedly passing newsstands, I finally saw Mitchell Huntington in person. It was one of the most chilling moments of my life.
He sat at the end of a long table, not just in a chair, but on a throne. And he looked every bit the part. Tall, imposing, with silver-grey hair slicked back meticulously. His eyes were so intense they seemed almost black, and his jaw was set in a way that suggested a man who never smiled.
On the other side of the room, a group of people were clustered together like passengers on a sinking ship, staring at the one man who controlled the lifeboats.
"Please, Mitchell."
One of the men stepped forward, pleading.
"If you give us one more quarter—just one more quarter," his voice cracked with desperation, "we can make this right!"
A chair creaked as Mitchell leaned forward, folding his hands upon the gleaming table with a sinister smile. 'You know you can make this right," he repeated slowly, emphasizing each word with terrifying clarity. 'But what makes you think I would believe that, Rick? When you've already proved that you're of no more use than that empty chair?"
'Usually, it's over a lot quicker than this." A woman next to me gulped and took a step away. 'I don't think anyone on the floor expected him to fire the entire board."
This time, I was unable to mask my shock.
'He fired the entire board?"
But no sooner could I process this, then the door swung open and twenty or so people rushed past. Not a sound amongst them. Every eye trained on the floor. The man who'd spoken up earlier had a greenish tint to his face. My guess was that he'd make it only as far as the elevator before throwing up.
Then, just as quickly as they'd come, they vanished through the double doors. The secretary disappeared alongside them. Leaving me standing alone in the suddenly empty hall.
A soft voice drifted in from the conference room.
'Ms. Winchester, I'm ready to begin..."
My mouth went dry, my ankles locked, and a cascade of chills went racing down my spine. It didn't help that the second I touched the door, I heard the man retching in the elevator.
And that was how I interviewed for my position with the Huntington family.
Without further ado, I made my way into the conference room, half-surprised there wasn't any blood on the floor. I circled around to the opposite side of the table, and came to a stop, my hands folded professionally in front of me. I would not sit unless he invited me to do so.
'Thank you for taking the time."
I guarantee, I was just as frightened as the people who had just left—but the longer I stood there, the more those nerves channeled themselves into a strange kind of calm. A virtual shield of confidence that I carried around to this very day.
'Well, your harassment of my company was most insistent," he replied dryly, flipping up some papers to scan through what was presumably my file.
I didn't flinch at the accusation, but instead nodded with a calm smile. It wasn't meant as a barb. These people admired persistence. More than that, they admired the self-importance it took to foist yourself upon other people under the arrogant assumption that you were absolutely worth their time.
Either way, apologies and doubt were signs of weakness I couldn't afford to show in this room. Not now. Not ever. I already had enough working against me.
'Avery Winchester," he murmured, reading some more. 'You come highly recommended, but I must admit, I haven't heard of you."
First trick of the trade: turn a negative into a positive with just a bit of creative spin.
'Mark of a good publicist," I replied evenly. 'I guarantee you haven't heard of my clients either. At least...nothing that I didn't want you to know."
He glanced up, looking as close to amused as I think the man was capable, before returning to the papers. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. First obstacle down. I would have to get these out of the way quickly and efficiently.
Because my relative lack of experience wasn't my only challenge.
I was twenty years old, unable to order a drink at the bars we frequented. My first task after hurrying back across the bridge to Brooklyn would be acquiring a fake ID.
But I had one of those faces that could adapt to fit the part. And from what I'd gathered about Mitchell Huntington, he tended to round up when it came to the ages of his associates.
Finally, the file closed. His glasses came off, and he focused directly on me. The resume part of the interview was done; it had given him all the information he needed. The rest was up to me—sink or swim, a life in Brooklyn or the Upper East Side.
'You've picked an interesting day," he remarked, reaching for a monogrammed handkerchief to clean his glasses. 'I imagine you're wondering why you've applied to board what appears to be a sinking ship."
I didn't hesitate.
'It doesn't seem that way to me."
'Oh no?" He scrutinized me from his seat. 'What does it seem like to you?"
Sell it, Avy. You've got twenty seconds.
'It looks like you're charting a new course. Shedding dead weight. Embracing fresh opportunities." I retrieved a pen and paper from my bag, maintaining eye contact. 'If you share those plans with me, I can start spreading the word."
He blinked three times. Each one sending me into a mild heart attack. Then the corners of his mouth twitched up into an unnatural smile.
'You've got the job."
I couldn't believe it. Could not believe it.
Ninety percent of me thrilled with the opportunity—to work for the Huntington Corporation was a dream come true. In all the ways that mattered, there truly was no bigger client. The other ten percent was absolutely terrified of what I'd just gotten myself into.
'Excellent." I kept my cool for just a moment longer, holding in my celebration until I'd reached the lobby floor. 'Who would you like me to coordinate with in corporate office?"
'Oh no, my dear." He reached over the table and poured himself a glass of scotch. A precise measuring. Not a drop's deviation from day to day. 'I don't want you for the company."
My heart fell as I simultaneously wondered if my own family was on their way up just to watch me fail. The pen and paper slid slowly back into my bag.
'You don't?"
'Not at all." He lifted the glass to his lips and said the fateful words that would go on to change my life forever. 'I want you for my son."
Now here we were.
I hastened to smooth down my dress, pulling my hair back into a tight bun. I wished Nicholas would wake up, but he was still passed out cold—oblivious to the dark force that had just walked into his bedroom. Fortunately, a single word from his father was enough to remedy that.
'Nicholas."
He jerked awake like he'd been having a nightmare, only to open his eyes and gaze upon the real thing. There was a hitch in his breathing, and half the color drained from his face as he hurried to make sure the blankets were still firmly around his waist.
'Dad—what are you doing here?"
That was another thing that had always surprised me. As much as Mitchell going by his first name. The informality of it. That Nicholas would address him as dad, instead of father. It was as if the family had sat down years ago, and read a book on what a family was supposed to look like. Talk like. Some things had stuck. The others had never really taken in the first place.
'It's funny that you should ask." He threw open another set of curtains, ignoring the way his wildly hungover son flinched as the light assaulted his eyes. 'I was walking into work this morning and there was a man handing out copies of the New York Times. Imagine what I should see on the cover, but my very own son."
Nicholas had told me once that his father was like a winter storm. It wouldn't kill you, as long as you were prepared. At the moment, we couldn't have been less prepared.
The paper flew down on the bed between them.
'What is this?"
