Make Me (Broke and Beautiful #3)(52)

She could hear her stepmother downstairs on another phone call, so she started pushing doors open. Empty bedroom. Bathroom. At the final door, her fingers paused on the knob a beat as she braced herself, before nudging it open. And there was her father, sitting at his computerless desk, playing solitaire . . . with actual cards. He didn’t look up as she entered, quietly finishing his game and gathering the cards together in a neat stack. He didn’t meet her gaze until he’d replaced them in the box, tucking the top into the slot with careful hands.

“Haven’t been able to look at the computer screen,” he said, his usually robust voice reminding her of a deflated balloon. “It takes longer this way, but you appreciate the wins more. The doctor says it’s important to recognize small victories. Learn to be content with them.”

Abby fell into the chair opposite her father, noticing not-so-subtle changes in him. He’d lost weight. Let his hair grow past his collar. But the stress that was usually visible around his eyes and mouth was gone. “That’s good. Is it working?”

“Sometimes.”

She nodded, but he didn’t continue. “Why didn’t you want to see me?”

Her question skipped like a stone in the still room, disrupting the air. Last week, she would have apologized for being so indelicate and taken back the blurted words, but she didn’t have the energy or desire for avoidance any longer. Of any kind.

Her father tapped the box of playing cards against the desk’s surface. “I’m embarrassed, Abby. Every day I wake up and get dressed, positive today will be the day I stop relying on my daughter. Putting her through what I went through.” He dropped the card box and folded his hands. “The truth is, I’m too scared. It’s not an easy thing for a man to admit.”

“Thank you for being honest.” A lump formed in her throat. “It’s okay to be scared.”

He turned his attention toward the window. “Not when it’s hurting your family, the way I’m doing.” His breath came out in a slow exhale. “If there was another way to keep the motor running while I figure out how to cope . . . I would do it. None of this is fair to you, Abby, but . . .”

“But you and mother have equal shares in the company.” She waited for him to meet her gaze. “She wants to keep me in your seat because it keeps the company in the family. Bringing in help might jeopardize that.”

Her father leaned back in his chair. “Weeks passed where I could barely decide what I wanted for breakfast. It was hard to gain back the ground I’d lost after that.”

Sympathy had significantly dampened the fire she’d woken with this morning, but she pushed forward, hoping her gut had guided her in the right direction. “Forget about all the pressure and expectations. Forget about what everyone else wants.” She lifted one shoulder. “Do you want to go back to work?

“No.” He closed his eyes. “No.”

“Good.” Abby reached into her purse and removed copies of the documents she’d signed in the Hamptons. The ones she’d asked Mitchell’s assistant for, claiming he needed her to review them for a meeting. She’d spent the last week poring over them in her free time. “I wasn’t aware of this until recently, but I have a 2 percent stake in the company. You never told me.”

Some of the shrewdness he’d been known for crept into her father’s expression. It was a relief to see a hint of the man she remembered. “It was done so long ago.” His eyebrows rose. “Honestly, I’d forgotten.”

She flipped a few pages, folded them over. “Mitchell asked me to sign a power of attorney form last weekend, giving me the ability to make decisions on your behalf.” Abby watched that sink in. “Along with my two percent in the company, I have the controlling interest. And I’m ready to use it.”

Abby jerked when her father threw back his head and laughed. Outside the room, she could hear her mother’s heels clicking down the hallway at a fast pace. She appeared at the door, one hand pressed to her chest as she ogled Abby’s father. “Was that you . . . laughing?”

“Damn right.” He wiped away tears of mirth. “God help anyone who ever underestimates my daughter. I certainly won’t ever make that mistake.”

Her mother moved into the room, arms crossed. “Meaning?”

Abby turned to the final document page and slid it across the desk toward her father. “Here is a list of New York hedge funds in the market to absorb funds of equal or lesser size. I’ve highlighted the candidates that appear most viable, based on the last four quarters and their client list.” When her mother started to interrupt, Abby held up a finger. “If we sell for the amount I believe we’re worth, this is what you’ll walk away with and still be able to give a two-year severance to each employee.”

“That’s pretty generous,” her father murmured, studying the document.

“Yeah, well.” Abby smiled. “They all hate me, and this is my way of making them regret it.”

Abby’s mother leaned over the paperwork, one manicured finger smoothing over the number Abby had circled. A number that would ensure none of them ever had to work again and would keep them in the lifestyle to which they’d grown accustomed. Her parents, anyway. She preferred her three-bedroom on Ninth Avenue.

Her father’s relief was palpable across the table, tension ebbing from his shoulders with each passing second. “I . . . I think I’ve got it from here, Abby.”