“No, don’t bother.” Elizabeth will come up with some excuse not to meet me.
Hanging up, I look out my living room windows, ignoring the huge pile of documents I brought home last night. It’s been ten days since we parted at the airport, and since then, she’s been avoiding me—ignoring my texts and calls. Even her office is united in an effort to keep us separate.
As though that will stop me.
A day after we returned to the mainland, a tabloid published an article detailing the deal Julian made with his kids over their grandfather’s portraits. Soon afterward, her brothers Ryder and Elliot responded, denying the allegation, describing it as the lurid figment of an overeager staff writer’s imagination. Most people bought the act—there’s a reason why Ryder Reed is one of the top stars in Hollywood. I didn’t, because I know the truth.
I tap the curved end of my armrest, thinking, then start writing on my phone. I’m tired of being ignored and avoided like bubonic plague.
Want to talk to you about the donation. If you don’t want to discuss it, that’s fine, but I’m withdrawing my support.
I don’t have to wait long before Elizabeth responds.
Your assistant has been informed of exactly what’s going to be done with the money. I don’t envision you getting involved in the project, especially when you’re going to be so busy with your venture in China.
Nice try. Holding my tongue between my teeth, I type, If this were my third or fourth major philanthropic project, maybe I’d be more blasé. But it’s my first. I want to be more hands-on, then hit send.
I understand. I’ll personall
y cover your donation. Have your assistant send mine details on where I should send the check.
Fuck. That isn’t what I want at all. I don’t give a shit about the damned money or what the hell she plans to do with it.
Stop avoiding me, Elizabeth. Talk to me.
I hit send.
The clock on my desk clicks off the seconds. I start tapping my desk to the tock-tock-tock, then jump to my feet and kick the chair. Argh. That stubborn woman!
My phone buzzes. I snatch it up.
Time and location?
Just three words. She must’ve thought long and hard before making the decision. Sitting back down, I type quickly before she changes her mind: Lunch. Today. 12:30. You pick the restaurant.
There. That should show her I’m determined yet reasonable.
She texts me an address. Given the terrible traffic in the city, I have just enough time to make it to the restaurant.
It’s a casual Italian bistro that somehow manages to serve all organic, gluten-free everything. Whatever meat they serve is free-range. Maybe it’s my working-class roots, but I can’t imagine how you can make pasta taste right without proper wheat.
Elizabeth hasn’t arrived by the time I step inside the cheery interior. The sound system plays Taylor Swift, which feels a bit jarring in an Italian place. A perky hostess—probably a college kid—takes me to a booth in the back.
Within a few minutes, Elizabeth walks in. She’s dressed impeccably, as usual, in a pink wrap dress and nude pumps. Pearls adorn her ears and throat, and her unbound hair gives her an air of carefree youthfulness.
As she sits down, I study her. What I see—a beauty so radiant it makes my eyes hurt—isn’t the full picture. I’ve witnessed how her makeup hides everything she doesn’t want on view.
“Elizabeth,” I say. “How are you doing?”
“Quite well.” She smiles, her head tilting slightly.
Her face is so perfectly composed and friendly. However, my gut tells me she’s anything but. I cock an eyebrow. “Really?”
Our waitress interrupts, wanting to take our order. Elizabeth chooses a salad with mini mozzarella balls and balsamic vinaigrette. I get the only option that looks somewhat appetizing—gluten-free low-carb fettuccine, which, when it comes, doesn’t even have the right texture. But the food is incidental.
When Elizabeth is done with about half her lunch, she says, “So, Dominic. What is this about?”
I consider, then answer honestly. “I wanted to see how you were holding up.”