One Bossy Offer (97)

She’s definitely in mourning, though, wearing a sweeping black dress that almost scrapes the ground and a black hat with a silk scarf poking out behind it.

I wait for what feels like forever with a face-ripping wind cutting into my cheek.

One minute.

Five.

Ten.

Sighing, I march forward, clearing my throat loudly to get her attention.

It’s like she’s one more cemetery statue here, this dead, lifeless thing rooted to the ground. No movement except for the slow, shaking slump of her shoulders.

Is she crying?

As much as I sympathize, I can’t wait all day.

“Miss, are you okay?” I reach out and tap her shoulder gently.

Before I can blink as another biting gust of wind slams me in the face, she pivots around in a violent, startled movement.

But the expression on Simone’s face has no fear.

She’s laughing. Not crying at all.

“I’m fabulous, Miles. Mommy dearest won’t be lonely for long.”

My chest constricts like I’m being crushed by five hundred pounds. My vision blurs red.

I’m goddamned suffocating before I lunge at her, before I pick all six feet of her up and evict her slimy, murdering ass off this hallowed ground and— Why do I hear bees? That droning noise in my ears can’t just be the hot rush of my own blood.

Then this spot on my arm goes ice-cold and I tear awake, gasping for air.

“Fucking nightmare,” I mutter to myself.

Thankfully, my fit didn’t wake Jenn.

She snoozes next to me, and when I look down, Coffee has his cold, wet nose pressed against my arm. His big brown eyes are huge and fixed on mine.

That explains one thing.

“I get it, buddy. Give me a second and I’ll take you out,” I tell him.

The big Doberman perks his ears as he looks at my nightstand and barks. That’s when I realize the buzzing wasn’t bees, but my phone.

Bradley’s name flashes across the screen.

Shit, what now?

PR doesn’t call at five in the morning, but these aren’t ordinary times.

Grabbing the phone, I pad through the house quietly to let the dogs out for a bathroom break.

“Cromwell.”

“Mr. Cromwell, hope you’ll excuse the early hour, but this couldn’t wait. We have a new problem. I thought you should hear it from me.”

Fuck, what else is new?

The only person who’s worked for me longer than Bradley is Benson himself. If he’s dancing around disastrous news, it must be catastrophic.

“Go ahead.”

“When I logged in this morning, I received a request for comment from a freelance reporter assigned to a story involving two former employees. A couple of women who worked for the company years ago—”

“The correct comment is always none,” I snarl, raking a hand through my messy bed hair.

“Normally, yes, but this time, that would only fan the flames. These women worked under Royal Cromwell, and the story seems to be about him. Not you.”

My father?

My teeth pinch together like a vise.

“What kind of story?” I ask.

Bradley clears his throat. “There’s no easy way to say this. They’re alleging sex scandals, saying he offered to promote them if they’d sleep with him.”

“What?”

It takes me a minute to register what he just said. I physically rock back, my legs scrambling to hold my weight like I’ve just stepped into a sinkhole.

“Names—do we have names?” I’m so fucking shell-shocked I’m stammering. “It has to be Simone. She’s fucking disgraceful.”

“That was my first thought as well,” he says carefully. “Should we talk to Legal?”

I’m torn.

I don’t know what to do.

Sure, I have the resources and legal weight to quash these stories at the snap of my fingers. If I decide to go that route, no one will ever hear them, at least not for years.

Every instinct I have screams at me to give the order.

It can’t be true—it fucking can’t—not when they’re accusing a man who loved my mother with his entire soul of living a lie.

But what if he did?

You always hear it, a tale as old as time in this sick slaughterhouse of a world.

How refusing to believe women who come forward is the reason women don’t come forward. If there’s the slightest chance Simone didn’t put them up to this, I don’t want to be that man who silences them.

My head throbs, ready to pop right off.

My father was a good man. I don’t want his name dragged through the mud, even if he’s too sick to understand the allegations.

I also can’t stand the thought of this shit hitting the news, or how his nurses will look at him. They might be the finest professionals money can buy, but if there’s any hint of truth—if there’s even the slightest doubt he lived a life that was predatory and abusive—they’ll never look at him the same way again.

My gut twists. I choke back bile, racing to the faucet in the kitchen to clear the taste from my mouth.

“Mr. Cromwell?” Bradley tries again. “Would you like me to have Legal work on blocking the piece? We can tie it up in court for months and weigh our other options.”