Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(45)

“No,” I said softly. “I fake quality quite well.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short.” Claire leaned across the desk, capturing my hand in hers. “I like you very much, Christian.”

“You have no reason to.”

“Even more so, because you don’t get how amazing you are.”

I gave her an it’s-not-going-to-work look.

“Is it Ms. Roth?” She dropped my hand.

“Don’t, Claire.”

“It is, then.” She stood up but didn’t leave. Waiting for a blanket denial. For me to change my mind.

I masked my annoyance with concern. “You deserve better.”

“I obviously do.” She smiled humorlessly but didn’t make a move toward the door. She was waiting for something else. Something I was incapable of giving her. Humanity. Remorse. Sympathy. I wanted to kill Arya and Conrad just then. For robbing me of all the things I could have given others.

“I trust this matter is settled and behind us,” I said.

And that was when I saw it. The realization sinking in. The way her eyes turned off told me everything I needed to know. She got it.

“Yes. Everything is perfectly clear. Will that be all, Mr. Miller?” Claire stuck her nose up in the air.

“Yes, Miss Lesavoy.”

It was the last time Claire spoke to me that day.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


ARYA

Present

“Are you sure you’re going to eat this muffin?” Mother—or just Beatrice, since she wasn’t hot on a woman in her early thirties referring to her as Mom publicly—glanced from behind her menu, twisting her mouth disapprovingly.

My father sat beside her, silently slathering a piece of toast with butter. Maintaining eye contact with Beatrice, I took a large bite of the orange-and-cranberry muffin in my hand, crumbs tumbling down on my mint-green Gucci dress. “Looks that way, Bea.”

We were sitting at the Columbus Circle Inn, a charming restaurant in pastel colors with blown glass flowers, for Sunday brunch. Beatrice Roth didn’t see me very often. She had committees and charities and luncheons to run, but she did once a year, when we went to Aaron’s grave for the anniversary of his death. It was tradition to have brunch afterward. While every year of my twin brother’s loss was punctuated with an exclamation point, I couldn’t remember the last time my mother had treated my birthday as more than just a comma.

“You need to make sure you maintain your figure, Arya. You’re not twenty anymore.” Mom readjusted her new diamond earrings for the sole purpose of drawing attention to them.

I rarely saw my mother, even though I lived right down the block from her. And whenever I did see her, she always had something unkind to say. She was disgusted with my lack of desire to become a kept woman. In her opinion, I worked too hard, exercised too little, and talked politics too often. All in all, I was a dazzling failure as a socialite.

“I’ll keep that in mind when I’m on the lookout for a misogynist husband who requires a no-brain and no-appetite trophy wife.”

“Must you be so crass all the time?” She took a sip of her gin and diet tonic.

“Must I? No. Do I? Sure, when I’m in the mood.”

“Leave her alone, Bea,” my father warned tiredly.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” She shot him a look before returning her attention to me. “This attitude of yours is not doing this family any favors. Your father tells me you pushed Amanda Gispen’s lawyer to the edge. Practically baited him to go to trial.”

“Beatrice!” my father roared. He had apologized for that day at the hearing, and I’d accepted, although something had broken between us since then. A fragile trust we had restored when I was fifteen.

I choked on my muffin as she continued, with an air of irritation. “Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t put more hours and resources into trying to spin this in the media.”

“Actually, I’ve been working nonstop on garnering positive press. Not an easy task, considering the allegations he is facing. There’s only so much I can do before the trial starts. Also”—I turned to my father—“I spoke to someone whose opinion I value, and he suggested you hire a female litigator as a part of your team. Apparently the jurors will respond favorably to a woman.”

Dad took a sip of his sangria. “Thank you, Arya. Your job is to make me look good, not give me legal advice.”

“You said I needed to help you more,” I challenged.

“Yes, in your area of expertise.”

“Well, don’t you think—”

Our conversation was interrupted by the waitress, who placed our quiches, Bloody Marys, and eggs Benedict on the table. We all paused until she was out of earshot. When she was gone, he began talking before I could finish my sentence.

“Look, I’m not interested in hiring any other lawyer, female or not. It’s going to look like we’re desperate.” He began cutting into his spinach quiche furiously.

“We are desperate.” My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

“That’s not something I’d like Christian Miller to see.”

“Oh, now you care about the optics?” I cried out, knowing all of this could’ve been prevented if Dad had been a little less brash when he’d fired Amanda. Assuming everything else she’d said wasn’t true, which was a hypothesis I found more unlikely with each passing day. Also, I honestly didn’t want to care what Christian thought. If I allowed myself to dwell on it, I’d crawl into a hole and die of humiliation from his rejection at Solstices’ sauna. He and Claire were probably having a good laugh about it. That was fine. It wasn’t like Miller’s opinion kept me up at night.