The Knight (Endgame #2)(4)
“I see,” Mr. Stewart says, and I can tell that he does. Someone who’s around this much family money must see some cruel things, even when they’re disguised as kindness. He nods toward the book in my hands. “I heard you just now, reading to your father. That’s lovely.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think he can hear me.”
“Perhaps not, but kindness isn’t only for the recipient. Sometimes it’s for the giver.”
“Are you saying that Gabriel Miller needed to do something kind? Why? Because he caused my father’s downfall?”
A small smile. “Perhaps. But I was more interested in the subject matter. You wield more power than you think, Ms. St. James.”
Chapter Four
In Greek mythology Helen of Troy was the most beautiful woman in the world. There are countless depictions of her in medieval and Renaissance art, each according to the artist’s own interpretation of beauty. Maybe every little girl thinks her mother is the most beautiful, but I have no problem imagining my mother in a flowing gown, looking out over a glittering green sea.
That’s my Helen St. James, a woman with multiple men vying for her hand in marriage. A woman who married a king. A woman completely unlike me.
So far I’ve dropped out of college, lost the family home, and sold my virginity. Not exactly anything I want told in myths years from now.
And whatever else Gabriel Miller might be, he’s not royalty.
Even so I can’t deny the grandeur of the glinting building slicing through the sun. In the lobby of Miller Industries, chandeliers made of a thousand shards shine light on a carved statue of Atlas. The earth is made of some kind of metal, its curved surface corrosive and yet somehow beautiful.
“Mr. Miller is not available,” the receptionist says, eyes a pretty blank blue behind steel-rimmed spectacles.
“I know,” I say, apologetic. “And I know this is unusual. But he knows who I am, I swear. We have a…personal connection. If you could just call up to him—”
She flicks a few keystrokes on her keyboard, managing to do her job while being a brick wall. “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible. Mr. Miller is—”
“Not available,” I finish, because she’s said it a half-dozen times already.
She’s determined to send me away, and I’m just as determined to stay. Whether or not Gabriel Miller intended to be kind with the donation to the nursing home, he still owns my family home. I have a slip of paper from the city proving that much.
“You can speak with the business manager assigned to your house.”
Part of me knew that Gabriel might refuse to see me, but as far as I can tell, he doesn’t even know I’m here. Frustration churns in my stomach, acidic and hot. He did this on purpose, sending me away just as I found out he’d taken my family’s house, making sure I’d have nowhere left to turn.
“All right,” I say, hollowed out.
A random employee won’t be able to help me. He won’t know anything about the illicit auction for my virginity or Gabriel’s role in my father’s downfall.
Except the person who comes to greet me isn’t a man. It’s a woman, her navy-blue suit accentuating a narrow waist and long, dark legs. Younger than I would have expected for a person in charge of accounts this size, only a couple years older than me.
“Ms. St. James,” she says, her voice almost sympathetic. “I’m Charlotte Thomas. Please, let me take you upstairs. We can discuss your case.”
“Oh, thank you,” I manage, dimly aware of her shepherding me toward the bank of gleaming elevators. I hadn’t expected to be greeted so warmly by anyone here, especially not someone who has knowledge of my family’s situation.
She directs me to the elevator at the end and swipes her key card to make it open. “After you.”
I step into the gilded box, acutely aware of my plain clothes. My image is reflected back at me as the doors slide shut, a scared little girl instead of the woman I wanted to become.
“Ms. Thomas—”
“Call me Charlotte, please. Ms. Thomas is my mother.” She gives a delicate shudder, mischief sparkling in her twilight eyes. “A shark of a woman.”
I blink, awareness seeping over me. “Wait. Nina Thomas?”
A wide grin, beautiful but somewhat reminiscent of a shark herself. “That’s her.”
“She was friends with my mother,” I say, at once charmed. I met Nina Thomas only a few times at society events, but she’d given me a genuine hug each time and told me I looked just like Helen St. James. And she’d been the maid of honor at my parents’ wedding.
“I know,” Charlotte says, cheerful. “Mom says they were best friends. And considering she only tolerates most people, that’s saying something.”
It strikes me then that Charlotte works for Gabriel Miller, the man who tore down my father with ruthless calculation, the man who bought my virginity. The man who stole my mother’s house. My throat tightens with grief, the strange relief that my mother’s not here to see what’s happened.
Dismay must show on my face, because Charlotte touches my hand. “I know your case has…special circumstances. And I’m going to do everything I can to help.”