Page 89 of Billionaire Grump
“It has to do with your embezzlement of more than twenty-five million dollars from the law firm you work for.”
He stands up.
“Sit down, Mr. Laine.” Fuck, I sound like my father. And I use that. Right now I need it. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to stop stealing money, immediately, before you end up behind bars. Your other two kids might need you at some point.”
I’ve already decided I’m not going to force him to return the money. He would end up in jail. And so would Josh. I’ve also decided I don’t want another cent of this fucker’s money anywhere near either Ivy or Josh. They don’t need it anymore.
“Mr.—”
“You’ll call off Jack Dempsey. Today. As soon as we finish this conversation. And if either one of your two oldest children ever sees or hears from him again, I’ll instruct my lawyers to anonymously present your crimes—in excruciating detail—to the authorities. We have enough to put you away for a very long time, Mr. Laine. Possibly for life.”
He’s speechless, the coward.
“You’ll allow the individual who withdrew ten million last week from one particular offshore account to keep it, uncontested. The matter is closed. And you’ll put fourteen million into trust funds for your two youngest children, divided equally, with their names solely on the trusts—not yours—to be given to them when they turn eighteen. My lawyers will be discretely contacting you in the coming weeks to make sure you can prove that this has been done.”
He’s given up protesting. He understands that I’m not fucking around.
“That leaves you with just under one million dollars of your own. And you’ll still have a job, if you can keep it. My final stipulation is that you’ll never contact Ivy or Josh again unless they contact you first. Do you understand these terms, Mr. Laine?”
“Y-yes. You know them?”
Do I know them? I resist the urge to punch the asshole. “That’s irrelevant to you. Any other questions?”
“No.”
“Good. I won’t take up any more of your time, then.” I stride over to the door and open it, practically running for the stairs because the elevator’s too slow. To Esther, I say, “Show him out.”
I reach Soho around twenty minutes later. The car is stuck in traffic so I end up getting out and running down the street like a fucking lunatic. I’m almost to the building when I realize I have no way to get in. I’m about to call Ivy’s number when I see a kid getting out of a cab. He’s tall and slim, that gangly teenage phase when you’ve grown a foot in six months and haven’t had a chance to beef up yet. I know who he is instantly. The dark hair and the golden eyes are dead giveaways.
I follow him to the door, which he opens by punching a code into the keypad. “Hold that, would you?”
He does, taking in the suit, the crazy look in my eyes, maybe, and the couple of inches and thirty or more pounds I have on him. He’s suntanned from his weekend away.
We wait for the elevator together. “Do I know you from somewhere?” he asks. It happens. I get written up a lot in the Economist, the Wall Street Journal and so on.
“Alexander Maddox.” I hold out my hand and he shakes it.
“The Alexander Maddox? Investment guru and CEO of Maddox Enterprises?”
“Guru might be overstating it.”
“I’m Josh. Josh Laine.” He’s got a decent handshake, which is always a good sign. He walks into the elevator, punching the button for the fourth floor as the doors slide closed. “What floor do you want?”
“Four. Thanks.”
He eyes me curiously. There are only two apartments on the fourth floor. Which means odds are pretty good I’m going to the same place he is.
“We’ll wait until Ivy’s with us, then I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” I tell him. “You and I need to talk.”
27
Once Alexander leaves to go to his office, I take a deep breath.
I pace a little, feeling like I just re-entered reality after taking an impromptu trip to an alternate universe for the weekend.
I change into some yoga clothes because I’ve been wearing this outfit for two days.
Then I vaguely check my messages. I’ve missed five calls from Cleo, but she’s going to have to wait. And so are the seven thousand DMs I have on Instagram because I haven’t posted since that picture by the pool in the Hamptons. That must have been Saturday morning and now it’s Monday.