“N-no.”
“Are you sure? Because it says right here that they’re planning to acquire rights to the productionNot My Enemyand given all the media focus surrounding the show lately, it’s come to my attention thatyouare a part of it.”
My gut hollows out at her mentioning the musical, because it can’t be good. I have no idea how she’s gotten her hands on that information, but it’s confidential. And I have the feeling she’s about to fuck me with it.
“I am, but—”
“Were you aware that Carlisle Rosswell often attends my tea parties?”
I can’t answer.
“Fine fellow. Good friends with our Darcy, in fact. It would be … well, quite a shame, if someone close to him pointed out what a terrible investment this would be.”
Bile rises in my throat. “No.”
“I’m simply pointing out facts, Christian.”
“That’s not a fact. It’s a good investment and he knows it.”
“It’s a good investment,now, however, I can’t imagine too many people will be wanting to rush out and buy tickets to your show if every publication across the country rates it poorly.”
“You can’t do that.”
She lets out a tinkling giggle that I swear will haunt my dreams. “Oh, I didn’t say? Darcy is the heir to MediaCorp. I’m quite friendly with his father and if I say the show is second rate, what do you think he’ll be publishing all over America? What do you think will grace every television set?”
I’m drowning. That has to be the feeling rising over me. She doesn’t need to say what she means explicitly for me to catch on. I break things off with Émile, or she’ll put the show in the ground.
I want to call her bluff.
I want to tell her she’s a bitter old hag who can shove her threats up her ass, but …
Reece. The rest of the cast. The relief and excitement we all felt this afternoon when the news came that this could, actually, finally be happening.
My own future I can gamble with.
But not theirs.
Frustrated tears sting my eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t like you. I don’t like your behavior, your attitude, or the fact that ever since my grandson met you, he’s been the focus of petty gossip and splashed all over the Internets. That’snotwhere a Cromwell belongs. But also …” She holds out both hands. “I’m doing it because I can.”
“Fuck.” I scrub at my face. “So that’s it? You just … you expect me to walk away?”
“Don’t worry, dear. If this show does as well as it’s predicted to, you’ll have enough of your own money that losing my grandson’s won’t be such a shock.”
I’ve never, ever wanted to harm an old lady, but this one deserves a flying face kick.
“And Émile?” I croak.
“He’ll be taken care of.”
“What if I don’t do it? What if I tell him everything you’ve said and we get married and he gives me the money to fund the show myself? You wouldn’t be able to stop me then.” I know he’d do it, too. Know that he’d be that selfless, because that’s who he is.
“Of course you’re welcome to try. But my loving husband knew Émile too well. He left a clause in the will that expressly states I must approve of the union or the money will go to darling Clifford instead.” She pauses for a second, like she’s letting that bombshell sink in. “What? He failed to mention that?”
His dad sneers. “My son never was much good at reading the fine print.”
The words fall around me and it’s only once silence hits that I realize I’m shaking. How have I gone from feeling on top of the world to … to …this?