House of Cards (Tech Billionaires)

by Ainsley St Claire

  Not only does marrying Alex Walker fulfill the will requirements, it also brings Elite Electronics into the Reinhardt Hudson fold, creating a merger and keeping the family company firmly in hand all at the same time. Mother gets giddy whenever she talks about it, and she’s set out to plan the wedding of the century.

  In my mother’s eyes I have no prospects of a good man, so why on earth wouldn’t this be perfect? I’ve tried a few times to explain my position, but if she’s going to insist on a strict interpretation of the will, I’ve begun to see that this is the only way to keep what my family has built for generations intact. And so I’m stuck.

  My announcement that I’m getting married is still hanging in the air, Jonnie’s face blank, when his phone rings.

  What terrible timing—or maybe it’s the best timing ever, since I’m not certain hashing this out face to face with Jonnie is a task my resolve is up for. He draws me in like a magnet, and I already want to just cave, forget about everything, and let him take me to bed.

  But I owe it to him to explain why I’m marrying Alex, even though my heart wants to be here with him and leave my scheming mother behind to manipulate someone else.

  Jonnie listens on his phone for a few moments, an urgent look in his eyes and signaling to me with one finger—a plea asking me to wait. I know he wants to tell me what I already know: I’m making a mistake. In many ways it feels like a mistake to me, too. But it’s an unavoidable one, and I worry he’ll never understand.

  “Okay. I’ll be right there,” he says. “Tell Queen Diva to hold on.” He disconnects his call and throws his hands up, exasperated. “I’m sorry. I really want to have this conversation.” He reaches for both my hands, and I look at him. “I really, really do. I just have a crisis I have to attend to.”

  I nod. Waiting a little bit won’t change my mind, and if I say too much now, I’ll start to cry.

  He squeezes my hands. “I need to have this conversation with you. I want to understand.” He searches my eyes. “This is not what I was expecting when you said you wanted to meet with me. We’ve got to discuss this. Please give me the chance to talk to you.”

  With a deep sigh, I nod. “I have two hours, and then I have to leave for my return flight. I’ll wait as long as I can.”

  “You’re leaving so soon?”

  I nod. “I’m sorry. I need to be back for a Reinhardt board meeting tomorrow.”

  He leans in and gives me a kiss on the forehead before running toward the door. He looks over his shoulder. “I promise, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  The door closes behind him, and I know he won’t be back in time. Queen Diva is exactly as described: a high-maintenance performer who has more talent in her little finger than I have in my entire body. She’s his in-house talent, and he’s shared with me before that she gets herself worked up about things and it’s difficult, but she’s worth all the hassle. She packs the house five shows a week—over a hundred and forty shows a year. The Shangri-la keeps fifty percent of each ticket sold, and her theater seats just under three thousand people. Which means she earns more than forty million dollars a year—and before costs, so does the Shangri-la. That’s not chump change.

  I walk back and forth in front of the full-length windows and look out over the desert. The hues of orange and purple are stunning and so different from anything I grew up with. Minnesota’s state motto is the Land of 10,000 Lakes. Granted, we also say the mosquitoes are the size of small birds because of all the water. It’s the opposite here, and I like the dryness and heat.

  I continue to pace in front of the window, one minute willing Jonnie to return so he can talk me out of this decision and the next praying Queen Diva keeps him so we don’t have to have this wretched conversation in person. I’ll never convince him. I’m not sure I‘m convinced. I just am out of other options.

  Time inches by. I check my watch every fifteen seconds and my email every five. Waiting. Wishing. Hoping. Dreading. The silence is deafening, and I jump each time I hear a subtle bump or flicker—probably the air vents or nothing at all. No Jonnie.

  Finally I can’t take it anymore, and it’s time to return to the airport. I need to leave. Taking a piece of paper from my purse, I write a note: I’m sorry. Magpie

  As I walk out of his apartment and through the hotel to my waiting car, I secretly want him to see me. I want him to find me one last time. Marrying Alex means I’m preserving the company, but I’m losing an incredible lover and a great friend.

  On my flight home, I can’t stop crying.

  “Is everything okay?” the flight attendant asks.

  I wipe my eyes, knowing my mascara is probably all over my face. “Just a bad break up,” I explain.

  She nods sympathetically and after a moment places a glass of amber liquid in front of me. “A double scotch. It may burn going down, but it’ll help numb the pain.”

  I try to crack a smile. “Thank you.” I take a small pull from the glass and marvel at how I’ve changed the course of my life. After a few minutes, the drink does as she’s promised, and my tears dry as the numbing begins.

  When I arrive in Minneapolis, Richard, our family driver, is waiting to meet me. He takes one look at me and brings me into his arms. Once again I begin to cry. He and Hazel always know how to make me feel better.

  Richard Patterson and his wife, Hazel, our housekeeper, have been surrogate parents to my brothers and me. I adore them. They never had children but essentially raised us as their own. They attended everything we did and made life bearable. They were supportive when my oldest brother, Christopher, emancipated himself in high school and worked his way through college and into the profession of his choice. They guided him to the U—as they call the University of Minnesota—and then to the University of North Carolina for medical school, instead of Carlton and business school like Father wanted. When my younger brother, Stevie, announced he wanted nothing to do with Reinhardt’s and moved to Hawaii and opened a surf shack on Kauai instead of going to college, Hazel and Richard were the ones who visited him and eventually talked him into coming home. I was the child who always did as my parents asked and when they asked. I’m the dutiful daughter, and my mother never fails to capitalize on that.

  “How was your trip?” Richard asks.

  He knows the pressure I’m under.

  “It was okay. But can we take the long way home? I’m not ready to face my mother.”

  We drive the scenic route from the airport toward our family home, Reinhardt House, in the upscale St. Louis Park neighborhood of downtown Minneapolis. I suppose it’s a little strange that I still live there at age thirty-one, but that’s just how it’s done in our family—or it would be if either of my brothers played by the rules. I have my own space, and for a long time it helped me feel a part of the Reinhardt tradition. Only lately has it begun to seem suffocating.

  I can see signs of spring trying to burst forth in the scenery outside my window, but as we drive, my thoughts inevitably return to Jonnie. He was the coolest guy on our high school campus. He had this level of confidence most boys don’t find until later. His swagger had all the girls swooning; his blue eyes melted even some of the teachers’ panties, and he had a mop of hair that always looked perfect. I learned quickly that girls wanted to hang out with me to get access to my brothers and Jonnie, which made me cautious about other women—a trait I’ve kept to this day. But I never got to hang out with any of their friends. The three of them wouldn’t let any other boys near me. I blame them for my desperate high school love life, which seemed to follow me to college.

  Even better than Jonnie in high school, though, is the Jonnie I reconnected with last fall at Christopher and Bella’s surprise wedding. He showed me around the Shangri-la—almost as if he wanted my approval. His excitement and enthusiasm were contagious, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s even more handsome than he was in school. His hard, muscular body has filled out and his eyes are still a mesmerizing blue that make my panties wet. I was glue
d to his side the whole weekend, and after the wedding, we landed in bed, which fulfilled a lifetime of fantasies for me—and more. I was innocent in so many ways, and he was kind and gentle. I couldn’t have asked for a more kind and patient lover.

  And since then, I’ve talked to him via text or phone every single day. Until now. That’s likely over, and I’m heartbroken that my duty as a Reinhardt daughter has officially eclipsed my ability to manage my personal life.

  I one-hundred-percent hate this, though I do adore Alex Walker. He’s been my best friend since we were in kindergarten, and I’ve known since second grade that he likes boys—just like I do. I love him regardless, but I don’t want to marry him. I don’t want a loveless marriage that’s nothing more than a business transaction.

  I fucking hate my mother.

  I hate the situation she and Alex’s father have created for us.

  When Richard pulls up in front of the house, I remain in the car. I’m still not quite ready to get out and face my future. After a moment, Richard comes around and patiently holds the door open. I finally check my makeup, and as predicted, it’s a mess. I take a moment to fix it, as I don’t need additional criticism from my mother. She has a comment about everything I do—what I wear, my makeup, my hair, how I spend my free time, and the color of my nail polish.

  Eventually I exit the car, stand next to Richard, and take a deep breath.

  “You can do this,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear.

  I adore this man. I reach for his hand, and he gives me a comforting squeeze.

  When I reach the door, I enter to find my mother standing in the foyer in her navy blue St. John knit suit, which is impeccably tailored to her petite frame. She’s also wearing stockings and Ferragamo ballet flats, and predictably, every hair in her bob is perfect, despite the humidity. There’s nothing out of place behind her false smile.

  She looks at me with one eyebrow up.

  “I’m home,” I tell her.

  She smiles. “Good. I have some wedding details to go over with you. We have the photographers coming. We need to make the official announcement in the society papers so no one thinks we’re rushing this and you’re pregnant.”

  I snicker. Alex once told me a vagina looked like a closet with the curtains poking out and smelled like a fish market. There’s no way we’ll ever consummate our marriage.

  “—and the right people must be able to plan and save the date,” my mother prattles on. “This is going to be the society event not only here in Minneapolis, but across the country.”

  “Yes, Mother.” There is so much I’d rather say to her, but my heart aches, and I don’t have the energy to fight with her right now. Since my father’s death, she has become more and more difficult, and I’ve realized how much my father tempered her.

  “I have a few things to manage for the Foundation, but I’ll circle back with you this evening.”

  Before she can comment further, I go to my room, shut the door, and crawl into my bed. I hug my pillow and cry until I fall asleep.

  Chapter 3

  Jonathan

  I can feel myself tapping my toe, though I’m trying not to be obvious about how irritated I am that I have to be part of this meeting between Queen Diva and her decorator. Apparently she won’t go on stage until we solve this problem—which isn’t actually a problem as far as I’m concerned.

  We opened the Shangri-la less than six months ago, and she picked all of her colors and fabrics for the interior design of her space at the time. Unfortunately, she’s now figured out what works and what doesn’t when you have the same dressing room day-in and day-out.

  Rather than just have her decorator put together a proposal and then together we determine who is going to pay for what, she’s decided to hold me hostage—like she does—until I agree to pay for it out of my budget and on her time frame. I should get major points for not freaking out immediately. I’m trying to sit and listen as her designer walks us through.

  I’m not a designer, but I’ve just built a three-thousand room hotel, and I know what things cost. This is easily a half-million-dollar redecoration of her dressing room. Good grief.

  Queen Diva brings in more than enough money, but I still need to keep the creditors from snapping at our heels.

  When the designer starts in on fabrics and the color palette, I suddenly, painfully realize I don’t care about silk and damask and subtle shades of gray and silver.

  I can’t focus on this right now. Maggie is in my apartment, and I need to figure out why she’s getting married—to Alex of all people. He doesn’t even like women.

  “Queen Diva consistently performs to a sold-out crowd, and her shows are sold out through the end of the year. She needs an oasis, a place where she can take a soothing break from the stressors of being a high-caliber performer,” the designer continues.

  “Whatever she wants,” I snap. “Just tell me what it’s going to cost, and we’ll figure it out. We’ll do our best to make it happen.” I manage to leave it at that, though I want to yell, My life is falling apart while I’m listening to a decorator ramble about something that is not urgent!

  I’m finally able to extricate myself after two fucking hours of this crap. My bodyguard Caden is close behind, but with every step I take toward my apartment, something else comes up. I jog through the casino as several employees try to catch my attention.

  “I’ll be back,” I yell. “I have something I have to tend to.”

  Why does every single one of my area managers need something from me? I know these guys handle more in a day than I ever could, but really? Why now?

  “The new washing machines have blown the circuits, so not only are we sitting in the dark, but we don’t have any way to run the machines. The electricians are working on it, but they have to ship a part in from Los Angeles. What should we do?”

  I need a vacation—that’s all there is to it. I need a break, physically separate from this place. That’s the only way.

  “We have a highly intoxicated person who we’re sure is staying here at the hotel, but we can’t tell what room. He passed out in the casino. We’ve moved him to the infirmary and are watching his vitals. Should we let him sleep it off or call an ambulance?”

  I dart around crowds, rushing to get to Maggie.

  “Roulette table four seems to be triggering black thirty-seven one out of ten times. It’s also running black 80 percent of the time. All the tables are full, but should we close it down and have maintenance check it? It’s just on the border of the Nevada Gaming Commission radar for non-compliance.”

  I shake my head and don’t slow down. When I’m finally free of the questions and mini emergencies, I race the rest of the way to my apartment. This is the one time I really wish it wasn’t so secluded.

  I know in my heart of hearts that Maggie has left by now, but I still want to try to see her. I still hope she wants to stay and talk to me. I have to talk her out of this sham marriage. It must be a sham. We connected when we were together last fall. The sex was magnetic. I shut my eyes and pray that she waited for me to return.

  The elevator hardly opens before I squeeze out, leaving Caden behind, and run my hand over the touchpad to open the door to my place. I can smell her faint floral perfume, but when I look around, the apartment is too quiet. She’s gone.

  My heart sinks. Why would she do this? I see a note and rush over to read it, but it doesn’t do anything other than apologize. She’s sorry for what? For breaking my heart? For leaving without talking to me? For marrying someone who could never love her as much as I do?

  I crumple the paper in my hand and throw it across the room. “Dammit!” Pulling the phone from my pocket, I call her, but it goes directly to her voice mail.

  I know the person who runs the airport. I’m half tempted to figure out which plane she’s on, stop it on the tarmac, and make them bring it back to the terminal. That would allow me to talk to her, but possibly not with the results I want.

&n
bsp; There must be a reason she’s had to do this…

  I blow out a big breath of air and send her a text.

  Me: I’m so sorry I missed you. I tried to get back before you left. Please call me. Please talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. I’m worried about you and I care for you.

  After a primal scream to release some frustration, I pour myself three fingers of bourbon and try to figure out how I can fix this. It’s the only thing I can do.

  Chapter 4

  Jonathan

  I’m staring out at Las Vegas from my office. Hordes of people crowd the sidewalks, exploring everything the Strip has to offer, despite the incredible heat—even in April. Maggie is not returning my calls or texts, so I haven’t talked to her in three days. After talking every day for months, that feels like three years.

  For all I know she’s blocked me. But why? Did I miss some serious signals? I don’t think so, but I don’t have any way to get an outside perspective on this. No one knows what happened between Maggie and me at the wedding. I think Christopher might kill me if he knew. Jesus. How did I get into this mess?

  I need to go to her. I need to talk to her and understand why. I will do what ever it takes.

  My admin rings me from her desk outside my office door. “Mr. Best?”

  “Yes, Lola?”

  “Our favorite friend is having a problem and needs you.”

  I roll my eyes. Queen Diva strikes again. I’ll get to Maggie as soon as I can…right after this, it seems. “Let her know I’m on my way.”

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  As I exit my office, Lola asks in a low voice, “Is she really worth all this trouble?”