Megumi Wei. The name doesn’t ring a bell. The other two women that came forward in the last week worked at two of my other companies. One in the commercial real estate holdings accounting department, the other at one of our tech companies in Thousand Oaks as a programmer. I knew them both in passing, but never spent a moment alone with either.
Another text tone chimes and I read the new message.
Isabella: We need to meet at your earliest convenience to hash out the details for the defense, whether we allow the charges against you to go forth into the courts or you choose to deal with them privately. The frequency and number of these filings is becoming impossible to keep out of the media as well as other significantly serious negative effects. I am available at any time, just let me know when and where and I’ll be there.
Negative effects.
Chastity is suddenly unreachable, unattainable.
She’ll never want me after she learns of the accusations.
I am about to become a villain in the eyes of the public. As soon as the news hits the stands, I’ll be persona non grata in the business world as well. It will be a shit storm, even if I prove my innocence beyond a doubt.
They’re lies, but so far it’s been my word against theirs and it’s going to take a hell of a lot to convince an innocent girl like Chastity that this was some kind of corporate sabotage, or well-orchestrated cash grab, which are the best explanations I have right now for what it could be.
That’s all I’ve ever been to women in the past. A means to an end. Chastity is different.
I need her to be different.
Swallowing hard, I lean against the kitchen counter and stare at the bedroom door.
I have to figure out a way to fix this. It will take millions, I’m sure, but right now, instead of fight it in public, I’ll pay it off in private to make it all go away. If I pay, it will be just as much as admonition of guilt as much as if I’d been convicted in court.
My eyes scan the counter, trying to figure out my next move, resolving to do whatever is necessary to keep this quiet.
Then, I see it half hidden behind a container of flour.
The air feels chilled. The custom black and white check and logo on the lanyard is familiar.
I yank it up and scan the laminated card.
Chastity Nash.
Marketing Intern. Westwood Inc.
I glare at the bedroom door, then at my phone.
Fucking hell.
She is bait. And I just took it.
Of the thousands upon thousands of women in this city, the fact that one from Westwood pulled me in so quickly? It’s the nail in the coffin of these harassment claims. I’m being set up, hard.
I may not take an active role in the running of Westwood, but it’s in my portfolio. Worse still, it’s located in the exact same building where I’m setting up my philanthropic venture. I’ve been careful not to be seen going in or out, but clearly not careful enough. This is too much for coincidence. I have a silent fifty-one percent ownership of Westwood itself, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have power over the operations if I so choose.
So what is this then? She’s going to just lie outright and say that I used my position to blackmail her into sex?
Daddy.
Baby girl.
I don’t want to believe it. But history plays on repeat. That’s a fact.
No, I can’t believe it. If she’s the trap, then it must be because someone else is pressuring her. She needs to know she’s safe with me, that I can protect her from whoever is behind this.
My hand clenches into a fist as I run through potential candidates. It has to be a business rival, someone who is either out to bring me down or out for revenge.
Fuck.
I’ll admit I’ve screwed a lot of people in my career. I’m not proud of it but it’s what it took to win. Maybe I screwed with the wrong person…
I drop the lanyard back on the counter.
Whoever it was, how did they find the perfect, sweet bait they knew I’d take? Who else could know my hidden proclivities? I’ve never acted on them, never spoken to anyone in a way that would raise an eyebrow, not until tonight.
I fight the groan as the pain ravages my newly vulnerable heart. Chastity has taken a hammer to the hard shell I’d built around it long, long ago.
By morning, I’ll no doubt have another potential harassment suit to contend with. I glance around the room, wondering if there are hidden cameras or microphones and I’m already fucked.
I’m getting paranoid but the clues are there.
That ’Uber’ driver hitting my limo was no accident.
I push my phone back into my pocket, punch my fists into the sleeves of my jacket while taking the few short steps to the front door, turning for one last look. I stare at the crazy laundry laying everywhere. The stuffed animals. The unfinished red velvet cake.