One Bossy Offer (107)

You can guess what I find.

Jack shit.

Nothing.

There are vanishingly few complaints. In fact, the ones that turn up have more to do with benefits and compensation than anyone’s bad behavior in the office.

I regret lying to Jenn and pulverizing her heart, but now that it’s over, there’s nothing to distract me from getting to the bottom of this abyss.

I pick up Jillian Oakes’ file and call every number listed. When she doesn’t answer, I try sending a text, and then I try numbers I find on Google supposedly associated with her.

No response.

Ava Wickes is next, the other accuser. Several different numbers are listed in her file. The first one seems disconnected, and there’s no answer at the second number. It’s probably useless, but I try the third anyway, a more recent one added from my own quick data digging.

“Hello?” She picks up on the third ring.

“Ava Wickes?”

“Speaking.”

I inhale slowly. “Mrs. Wickes, this is Miles Cromwell.”

Her breath catches loudly.

“Miles Crom—oh.” She pauses. “Yes, what do you want?”

I sigh.

Fuck, I wasn’t actually expecting to have this conversation.

“I just wanted to apologize to you on behalf of my family and my company if—” Hell, I don’t even want to say it, much less open the doors to more hell legally. “—if my father ever did anything underhanded or unethical. He hasn’t been well for several years and his mind is basically gone. So the most I can offer is a heartfelt apology on his behalf.” I draw a deep breath. “But if he ever wronged you in any way... I need to know.”

She’s dead silent for a minute.

When she speaks again, her voice is much softer, almost weak. “Yes, I’m—I’m aware of Royal’s condition. I hate bad-mouthing him to his own son, but he... he just had another side. I’m sure you don’t want to hear the gory details.”

I grit my teeth.

If only she knew how very badly I do. I need the truth, no matter how many sharp teeth it comes with.

“Mrs. Wickes, just give me your version, please. Off the record, we don’t need lawyers for this.”

Again, that choking silence.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to discuss this with you, Mr. Cromwell. All I can say is everybody has another side. I’m sorry his actions dragged you into this. We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, and I’m sure it’s the same for your father.”

Isn’t that the fucking truth?

An image of myself lying nude on silk sheets while Simone licked up the inside of my thigh pops into my head.

We all do things we don’t want anyone knowing about. But I didn’t drug myself and pull the battery out of my phone—even after I mentioned my father’s problems to Simone, and she laughed sympathetically when I told her my mother was too stubborn to hire a full-time nurse.

I can’t believe Dad would ever betray her like that with some bullshit fling.

I can’t believe he’d ever pressure anyone to sleep with him, much less women who work for him.

Did he?

“Mrs. Wickes, that’s fine. Just tell me this—did my father ever do anything unethical?”

“Your father worked so hard the decade before he stepped aside. With so many changes, with the internet coming into play, I think he lived there half the time. He said he was lonely—” She stops.

That much is true.

He hated being away from us, especially my mother.

“Eventually, he just went about taking care of his loneliness the wrong way. The promises he made, well...” She trails off. “When he asked for the unthinkable, he promised a promotion and told me I’d make twice my salary. I wasn’t thinking then. How could I say no?”

“The unthinkable,” I repeat coldly.

Damn.

Again, icy silence.

“He asked me to—I mean, he wanted us to—I’m sorry. I don’t want to have this conversation right now, okay? My attorney will be in touch.”

“I understand. You’ve already spoken to a reporter, though.”

“Yes, and it would probably be better if we kept this between our counsels, wouldn’t it?”

“I just want your story,” I say.

“He asked me to sleep with him,” she snaps, almost too quickly. “There. Is that what you needed? As for the rest, you can read the article.”

My gut hardens.

Goddammit, no.

On so many levels, I don’t want the bitter truth.

I could care less about my dementia-stricken father’s sex life.

I just need to know why he left this open sore, ripe for Simone to come along and pick it open to fuel her stupid war on me.

“Mrs. Wickes, listen—”

There’s a muffled click.

“Mrs. Wickes? Ava?” I pull the phone away from my face and look at the screen, flashing my worst fears.

She disconnected, leaving me alone with this flaming wreck of a scandal and zero answers.

“Fuck!” I shout, slamming my hand on my desk and swearing again.

Of course, it’s my inflamed hand with bruises already fanning out from the knuckles. I rip my hand back, biting at the pain.