My mom had been warning me about men like my father for my entire life. She taught me the importance of independence and how I had to make my own money and live life on my own terms—create my own future. They were all good lessons. But she taught me these things because my father had lied and broken promises to her, and she didn’t want me following in her footsteps when it came to men. Andrew wasn’t my father. I wasn’t even sure Des was quite the monster that my mother described.
“Do you ever wonder what happened to my father?” I asked.
My mother tutted and glanced around her apartment. “I do not. I have enough to worry about in my life right now.”
She was right. I was sure her knee would be excruciating after preparing dinner for us all.
“You remember you said he offered you that money when he got back to England?” She acted like she hadn’t heard me and went to stand. “You ever think you should have taken it?”
She snorted. “It would have relieved his guilt, that’s all. What’s with all the questions? You need to think about your future, not your past.”
I shrugged. “You made the comparison between Andrew and . . . him.” I’d always been so savvy when it came to relationships with men. I never gave more than I got, never compromised my plans or dreams. But with Andrew, things felt a little different. Was this a feeling I had to be afraid of?
“Why can’t you find yourself a nice Italian boy? Someone like Lorenzo—”
“You want me to date gay men?”
“I didn’t say Lorenzo. I said someone like him. Someone with a steady job and a good family. Someone . . . buono come il pane. Someone who will take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself. You taught me that. I’m not relying on Andrew.” That wasn’t quite true. He was my boss. For now. And it wasn’t like we were engaged or even thinking along those lines. My feelings for him were unexpected, and stronger than I remembered having for anyone else, but we were still at the beginning of whatever was between us.
“You just need to be careful. Learn from my mistakes. Don’t get burned.”
Andrew might be rich and powerful and very attractive. But he wasn’t my father. We weren’t kids. He hadn’t made any promises that could be broken. “I’m not going to get burned.”
She shook her head. “So certain of everything, tesoro. I know that look in your eye. I had it once myself, too.”
As much as I might want to, I couldn’t dismiss what she was saying. She thought I was following the same fate, falling for a rich, handsome man from England. I couldn’t blame her. Was I being naïve thinking that Andrew was different? Special? Worthy of my trust?
I didn’t want to believe it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
Thirty-Three
Andrew
Fucking Tristan. No one made me doubt myself. But I couldn’t stop pacing the length of the Presidential Suite, playing our conversation over and over in my head.
There was no doubt I would have preferred to have sat across the table from Goode, written him a big check and told him to go fuck himself when he signed Verity over to me.
I couldn’t force him to sell face to face, but did I want to “trick” him as Tristan described it?
Verity had been established to uncover lies and corruption and injustice. What would my grandmother think if I got her company back by lying?
I collapsed back on the sofa. I knew the answer to that—she’d tell me it wasn’t worth it. If she was alive today, she’d tell me to let go and move on, that her legacy wasn’t in the magazine but in the people whose lives she touched.
She’d said the same thing when my mother first went to her with the idea of selling the magazine.
The choice had been made years ago, by the women in my family with a stronger connection to Verity, Inc. than I’d ever had. I should never have come to New York in the first place. I’d lost sight of the ultimate aim of restoring a legacy.
My heart lifted in my chest and the tension in my neck and shoulders seeped away. It was the right decision; I could feel it in my body and heart. I could feel it in my DNA, for Christ’s sake.
Sofia was going to be pissed off. I hoped she would understand when I explained it to her.
My phone buzzed with a message from Sofia—a screenshot of a reply from Goode about accepting her rejection of his offer and still wanting a meeting on Monday. Shit. It would have been easier if he’d called to cancel.
I typed her a reply, telling her we needed to talk.