The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

She tried to sound strong, but it was more of a plea. “Get out.”

I took in a deep breath, turned, and walked out her door, ready to get to work.

The same housekeeper was waiting for me in the foyer when I tried to leave.

“Mr. Hale, if you have a moment, Stephen would like a word. He’s in his study.”

It was likely Mrs. Alby had cut their vacation short because of Sophia’s accident, which meant Stephen was now at home. I followed the woman down the hall and into a room that looked more library than home office, although he was seated behind the desk with his laptop.

At my entrance, he rose from his chair and moved toward me, his hand extended. “Macalister.”

I took his offered handshake. “Stephen.”

“My wife and I want to thank you for what you did for Sophia. I doubt there’s anything Colette or I can do to ever repay you for saving her life, but if—”

“There is,” I interrupted. “I need you to pull five million dollars’ worth of my HBHC stock and place it in a trust.”

He drew his shoulders back with surprise. His eyes were narrow set and his nose long, and I wondered how I never noticed how different he looked from Sophia. He wasn’t an ugly man, but he could not compete with Damon Lynch’s looks. That had to have been some factor in Colette’s night of weakness twenty-six years ago.

I tried not to speculate. No one could truly understand a marriage unless they were inside it.

“Sure,” he said, although he sounded anything but. “And who is the trust for?”

“Sophia.”

I watched a range of emotions float through him. Surprise. Skepticism. Then, distrust. He was an intelligent man, and he wondered what reason I would have to give her such a large amount of money. My mind would have followed the same route if the roles were reversed.

His expression clouded over. “May I ask you a question, man to man?”

“You may.”

“Have you slept with my daughter?”

At first, I respected his assertiveness. I was his biggest client, and this was a tough question to ask, likely to upset me. I appreciated people with backbone, and although she didn’t have his genes, some of Sophia’s fight undoubtably came from him.

But I worried he wasn’t asking as a father who wanted to protect her honor. He was asking because he wanted to exploit me.

“No,” I answered.

When faint disappointment materialized in his expression, it confirmed my suspicions. He’d be pleased if she traded the Alby name in for Hale.

“As I understand it,” I continued, “she’s not your daughter.”

His eyes went so wide, they were impossibly white, and he gasped. “She told you?”

“I respect how you did not abandon her or her mother at such a difficult time, when a lesser man would have. That says a lot about your character.”

He reeled with this information, not sure where to look or what to say.

“However,” I darkened my tone, “so does the way you treated Sophia once you knew the truth. You’re a fool. You let your hurt and your selfishness blind you from seeing what an incredible woman she became. I would have been proud to call her my daughter.”

Stephen blinked, and his defenses went up. His eyes went down to slits. “Glass houses, Macalister,” he snapped. “I don’t think you should be commenting on what makes a good parent. Your sons barely speak to you.”

He had a point, but I wouldn’t concede it. “Let me know when the trust is set up.”

I walked swiftly to the front door, and as I came down the steps, I pulled my phone from my pocket. I dialed the desk phone of my temporary assistant, hoping I hadn’t scared her off.

“Macalister Hale’s office, this is Rosa speaking,” she answered.

“Go find Marist Hale in benefits and compensation. I’ll be back in the office in forty-five minutes, and I want her waiting in my office when I arrive.”

Saturday morning, I had just stepped out of the shower when there was a knock on my bedroom door. I wrapped a towel around my waist and moved swiftly toward it. “Yes?”

“It’s Royce,” came from behind it.

When I pulled the door open, his startled gaze took in my bare chest and damp hair, and he glanced at the screen of his phone. “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The family portrait you insisted we do. The photographer should be here any minute.”

I paused. “That’s today?”

“Yeah. Vance and Marist are downstairs.”

I scowled. Sophia had set this up and likely put it on the social calendar, not the office one, and I’d forgotten to check it. Rosa had only been working for me a day and a half and wasn’t yet up to speed.

“You didn’t know?” Royce asked.

“Sophia and I are having some communication issues at the moment,” I said, leaving the door open as I headed for my closet.