Ruthless In A Suit (Book Three)

by Ivy Carter

  Ruthless In A Suit (Book Three)

  Ivy Carter

  Favor Ford Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  NOTE

  Want To Be In The Know?

  Ruthless in A Suit by Ivy Carter

  Book Three

  Bonus Content: Jackson (The Billionaire Croft Brothers, Book One) by Paige North

  1. Jackson

  2. Emily

  3. Jackson

  4. Emily

  5. Jackson

  6. Emily

  7. Jackson

  8. Emily

  9. Jackson

  10. Emily

  11. Jackson

  12. Emily

  13. Jackson

  14. Emily

  15. Jackson

  16. Emily

  17. Jackson

  18. Emily

  19. Jackson

  20. Emily

  Copyright © 2017 by Favor Ford Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  NOTE

  This version of Ruthless In A Suit (Book Three) contains the following bonus material: Jackson by Paige North

  Want To Be In The Know?

  If you want to know when the next Ivy Carter book is released, and get alerted to more of the hottest deals in romance—sign up now to the Favor Ford Romance newsletter!

  Ruthless in A Suit by Ivy Carter

  Book Three

  CADENCE

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  That’s the question that my father asks me, and it’s one I don’t have a good answer for.

  “I have to,” I say softly, more to myself than to him.

  My father and I trudge up the steps of the post office.

  “It seems like the best revenge would be taking his money and running far, far away,” my father continues, shaking his head. “Or at least giving it away. But to give it back to him? Isn’t that what he wanted all along?”

  I shrug. I can’t explain it; I just know that I can’t have a single cent of that money in my possession. Not even for a second.

  And yeah, the money is what he wanted all along, so giving it to him seems like the perfect revenge. What’s that old saying? When God wants to punish us, he gives us what we want?

  Well then Levi can take every last dime and enjoy himself. I hope the weight of it tortures him forever.

  Only as soon as I think it, I feel guilt. Because while I hate what he did, I still haven’t managed to shake the knowledge that I don’t want him to be tortured.

  I actually want him to be happy.

  And if I’m honest with myself, there’s also a little niggling thought at the very back of my mind. Every time it appears, I’m careful and quick to beat it back. But I can’t help but wonder if maybe there was a moment that he wasn’t … I mean, that he actually …

  No, I say to myself. He’s a liar and a manipulator, and you can’t believe a thing he said. He wanted the money, he did what he had to do to get it, and now he’s got it. And good luck to him.

  I follow my dad into the post office, clutching the manila envelope in my white-knuckled hands.

  Shortly after I marched out of Albert’s office, I received an email from him detailing the steps I’d have to take to turn down the estate. Turns out it’s not as simple as making a dramatic declaration and sliding an engagement ring across a desk, though that did feel pretty fucking good in the moment.

  I had to draw up a letter declaring my intent to waive my claim to the elder Maxon’s fortune, properties, and business, and I also had to get it notarized.

  Shortly after the meeting with Albert, I’d gone to the library, where a nice elderly librarian had helped me flip through a few legal books and surf a few websites until I found what I needed.

  I wrote it, printed it, and now I was down to the last step: getting it notarized.

  My father, who had been nothing but dumbfounded since I’d marched into the house after leaving Maxon Law, had volunteered to take me to the post office, where one of his colleagues served as notary public.

  That first day after finding out was a total nightmare.

  All my things were at Levi’s house – which was supposed to be my house, either through marriage or inheritance – but I couldn’t risk going back there and running into him.

  I hadn’t cried yet, and I feared seeing his face would send me into a state of hysterics, the likes of which I feared I would not ever recover from. And so I cut my losses and hopped on the red line bound for home. My home.

  When I arrived, my father was at work and Brenda was crocheting something hot pink while watching a Tivo-ed episode of The View.

  “What are you doing here?” she cried, as if I’d caught her doing something illegal instead of something utterly banal.

  “I live here,” I snapped, and she recoiled, surprised by my venom. But I couldn’t help it. I had lots of it, and nowhere for it to go.

  “Not anymore you don’t,” she said, when she recovered herself.

  “Yes, actually. This is still my home. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in my room.” I turned on my heel and headed down the hall.

  “You don’t get to come running back here every time you have a lover’s quarrel,” she called, and than I stopped. Lover? No. Definitely not.

  I whirled around and faced her. “There’s not lover’s quarrel, because there’s no lover. There’s only me, and I live here. I’m sorry if that gets in the way of your plans. Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do, and the moment I can, I’ll be gone again. But for now, this is all I have, so you’re going to shut your mouth and deal with it.”

  Before she could say another word, I turned on my heel, marched into my room, slammed the door, and let out the choked sob I’d been holding in since Albert had told me the news.

  Once I started crying, it was impossible to stop. The dam had broken, and the tears flowed with the force of the Mississippi River unleashed. I laid on my bed, buried my face in my pillow, and breathed in the familiar scent of home as I sobbed for everything I’d lost and how quickly it had happened. And how stupid I had been, to believe that he had loved me. How stupid I’d been to fall for it all.

  When my father got home, he knocked on my door tentatively, and after a pause to wipe the tears (though they kept on flowing regardless), I let him in. And then I told him the story. The whole, true, painful story about the whirlwind romance that ended in deceit. The money and the property and the company, and the way that Levi tried to get it from me. I told him about Mom and Mr. Maxon, news he still couldn’t seem to get his brain around. And then I told him about my decision to let it all go.

  It took him twenty-four hours before he started trying to talk me out of it, but I wouldn’t hear a word. And he must have told Brenda the truth as well, because she soon joined in the chorus.

  “You said you wanted to move out on your own, do your own thing. Well apparently not, because all that money could help you with that!” She cried. Her voice was at a screeching keen that I was sure only dogs could hear.

  “No,” I said, which I’d taken up as my standard response. No explanation. No anger. Just no. I’d clung to it for days. Because if I thought too hard about it, I started to wonder why I was doing it. Was I returning the money to get him to show me something? To prove something to him?

  I come back to the present.

  Inside the post office, Dad walks me back to an office near where they sort the mail. In
side is his supervisor, a tall, muscled black man named Jamelle.

  “Paperwork?” he says to me, having already been briefed on the reason for our appointment. I pass him the envelope. “And I’ll need to see some identification.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Dad asks, one final time.

  “No,” I whisper.

  LEVI

  It’s early June, not that you could tell from the weather.

  It’s been raining every day for weeks, and the temperature’s barely crept past sixty-five degrees. The whole of Boston has been gray and damp and cold.

  Everyone’s spending their time complaining about how gloomy it is, but it suits me just fine.

  The weather perfectly matches my mood, after all.

  It has been three weeks since my father died. Three weeks since I returned from the hospital to find Cadence gone.

  Three weeks since Albert sheepishly slid her engagement ring across his desk, along with news that she’d be turning everything in the will over to me.

  Three weeks since I’d seen or heard from her.

  I’ve tried calling. I’ve sent scores of texts. I went to her father’s house trying to find her, but she wasn’t there. Or at least, that’s what her father said, along with instructions for me to leave his home before he called the Boston Police Department to deal with me.

  There were emails, and even a few letters that I mailed to her. None of it worked. If she’s gotten any of my letters and calls and texts and messages, she’s ignoring them all.

  I don’t blame her, of course.

  What I did, at least to start, was despicable.

  And she had no way of knowing – or no way of trusting – that any part of it was real and true. I wanted to explain to her that it had really only been that very beginning that was a lie.

  But none of my arguments mattered, because I couldn’t get her to hear them.

  She was just gone.

  Julia and Logan’s new home is on the third floor of brownstone in the South End. The neighborhood is vibrant and moneyed, but by the time I climb up the narrow carpeted stairs to their door, I’m sure I’m at the wrong place.

  Julia’s father could have bought them a house anywhere in the city. Throw in Logan’s family money, and they were practically Boston Brahmins.

  How did they end up in a third-floor walk up in a divided townhouse?

  I knock on the door, and Julia flings it open. Warmth and light pour out of the tiny apartment, and she practically glows when she sees me, wearing torn jeans and a button up, the sleeve rolled up, her hair gathered in a messy knot at the nape of her neck.

  She takes one look at me – from the rumpled clothes that I haven’t bothered to send out to the dry cleaners, to the bags under my eyes from nights spent laying away wondering how I let everything go so wrong – and says, “You look like shit.”

  “Good to see you, too, Julia.”

  She reaches for my hand and pulls me in for a hug. “Oh sweetie, I’m sorry.” Then she lets me go and slaps me on the back of the head. “But also, what the fuck did you expect, you abject lunatic?”

  I rub the spot where she got me, not that it hurt. It’s more the truth that stings. She’s absolutely right.

  I brought it all on myself.

  Logan must have told her everything.

  They’d returned from their honeymoon just a couple days previously, and Logan had forced me to join him for a run. Like his wife, he’d taken one look at me and known something was wrong. We’d barely made it a mile before I’d told him the whole, shameful story.

  “I know,” I reply. “Believe me, I know.”

  “Well come on in, lunch is getting cold.”

  I follow her into the foyer, where I smell beef and gravy. I’ve barely eaten since Cadence left. Nothing has sounded or tasted good. I’ve basically been eating only for survival, and even then only minimally.

  But suddenly my mouth is watering.

  “You cooked?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at her.

  “I cooked,” Logan says, stepping out of the kitchen wearing a blue and white striped apron and holding a wooden spoon.

  “You got yourself a nice little wife there, Julia,” I say, laughing.

  “You shut your goddamn mouth, or no beef stew for you,” Logan says. “And I did the carrots soft like you like them.”

  “Okay, now I’m jealous, Julia,” I say, trying to keep some humor. Really, though, my heart is getting heavier.

  This could have been us.

  Could have been me and Cadence, if I hadn’t screwed it all up.

  Logan glances at me. “Wine?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  Logan uncorks a bottle of some pricey French red that they brought back from their honeymoon. Three weeks traveling around France tasting wine, that’s what they’ve been up to. And until recently, that would have sounded like hell to me. I don’t do vacations, and I certainly don’t do indulgence. But even a moment spent imagining being on that trip with Cadence is enough to rip my heart out of my chest.

  I practically lose my breath from the thought.

  We each take a seat at their dining room table, a smallish farm number made of reclaimed wood, and again I’m reminded of how strange it is that this is where they’re living.

  “I thought you guys would be in Back Bay,” I say, gazing around at the apartment, which can’t be more than 1200 square feet. “Or maybe Beacon Hill. Cambridge, at least. What’s with the digs?”

  Julia and Logan exchange a glance across the table. I put my wine glass down and cross my arms over my chest.

  “Well, we have something to tell you,” Logan says, his voice trailing off.

  My eyes dart between them. “Please don’t tell me you’re already pregnant.”

  “God no,” Julia practically yelps, which makes Logan roll his eyes.

  “We’ve left Baker Beeman,” Logan says.

  “Better offer somewhere else?”

  “Not exactly,” Logan says.

  “Will one of you two please just spill the beans already?”

  “We’ve decided to start our own firm,” Julia says.

  Well that wasn’t news I was expecting. I assumed the pair of them were on their way to partner at Baker Beeman. “Really?”

  “Yes,” Logan says. “We’re tired of the corporate rat race, and we very quickly realized that we don’t need the money that badly enough to justify the crap that comes with it.”

  “Some of the people and companies we represented made us sick,” Julia adds.

  “We’re going to start a firm that represents organizations dedicated to causes like immigration, education, and the environment. We’ll also be dedicating twenty-five percent of our business to pro bono work for small clients,” Logan explains.

  “We’re talking direct immigration help to families, fair housing disputes, legal wrangling over mortgages and trusts,” Julia says. “We want to have both a large and small-scale impact.”

  “That sounds great, you guys,” I say. And it really does. It’s not like they’re going to be working any less with this new venture. Starting up your own firm is hard enough, but when you’re focusing your efforts on people and organizations who historically can’t pay, it means even longer hours.

  “Which is where you come in,” Logan says.

  “Me? I already have a job.”

  “Which you love oh so much,” Julia says, her voice dripping sarcasm.

  “We want you to handle the pro bono stuff. You’re the most amazing litigator on the planet, and we’d like to see what can happen when we put someone like you on the side of someone whose landlord is trying to fleece them or someone who’s on the verge of being deported. We think people like that deserve an attorney of your caliber,” Logan explains.

  My initial gut reaction is to say no.

  But then I ask myself why. Sure, Maxon Law bears my name, but at this point the firm is nothing more than an albatross around my neck, a daily reminder of all the way
s my life has gone completely and totally off track.

  And I think of Cadence—what she would say if she were here right now. She’d tell me to go for it.

  Her eyes would be sparkling and she’d tell me that life would be way more interesting and invigorating working with my best friends, doing good work for people that actually need it.

  And then I think of how I’m probably never going to get her back. It still hurts like a motherfucker, but it’s true.

  The crazy thing is, I messed everything up with Cadence just because I wanted to see my plan through to get the firm back. But ironically, I’d now gladly give the firm away, and every red cent I’ve ever earned—just for the ghost of a chance to have Cadence in my life someday.

  It’s weird how life works sometimes.

  Weird, and painful…but maybe it’s also kind of perfect. Maybe this is what I needed to learn. Maybe I can still do the right thing, even if Cadence isn’t around to appreciate it.

  Even if not having her with me feels like my chest is being opened up with a dull kitchen knife.

  “I’m in,” I say, my voice suddenly loud and firm.

  I’m already drafting my resignation letter to the board in my head.

  “Holy shit, I didn’t think that was going to work,” Logan says, staring across the table at his wife, but Julia just grins her trademark Cheshire grin.

  “I had faith,” she says, grinning wider now.

  “We didn’t even talk salary,” Logan says.

  “Don’t care,” I replied. “Just give me enough to live on. That’s all I need.”

  “There are details to discuss,” Julia says.

  “Then let’s discuss them together. Now. Because I’m in.”

  We spend the rest of the meal discussing office space and start-up costs and other details. We agree to call the new venture Cabot Essex Maxon, our names in alphabetical order.

  I’m already plotting my call to a real estate broker to put the Back Bay mansion on the market. I’ll buy myself something small, something cozy and comfortable like what Logan and Julia bought, and throw the rest of the money into our new firm to find us office space. Unless—