by Emily Bishop
“Why the hell would I care?” I flop down on the couch and crush my cigarette in the ashtray. The thought of her makes me light up another one. She sends stress jolting through my body.
“Nah, seriously, look.” Tim fishes his iPhone from his pocket and taps away, then strides over to the bookshelf and pulls out a thick hardback. “Compare.” He places the school yearbook on the glass coffee table and puts his phone next to it.
Everyone crowds around behind me. Even Eddie bothers pulling himself up from his tipsy sprawl to check it out.
I look at the Facebook picture first. Long dark hair, poker straight, like a shining black curtain. She’s in a loose-flowing summer dress and has a pretty smile. Looks like she’s in a park, from all the trees behind her. “As boring as always. Taking a summer stroll in a park, probably with a whole load of books and far too many opinions.”
“Don’t you think she’s hot, though?” Tim says.
Rowan laughs. “He’s still holding a grudge, that’s all. She was the only chick who wasn’t all over him in school.”
“Her loss,” I say, then look at her yearbook picture. That’s how I remember her. A wild shock of dark curly hair falling past her shoulders. Her chin up high like she thinks she’s of a higher standard. Blue eyes piercing through the page like ice-lasers. I could never melt her. The other girls were like pools of warm water. She was an iceberg. Yet she’d laugh and joke and play around with others. Just not me.
I sink back into the couch and laugh. “Wonder what she’s doing with her sad little life right now. Probably a librarian.”
“No way,” Rowan says. “She was the smartest girl in school.”
“No,” I stress. “There’s a difference between hard work and intelligence. Even the dumbest can get good grades if they spend every minute of their lives studying. But what kind of life is that? Intelligence doesn’t equal grades. Even Einstein did badly—”
Rowan laughs and pours himself a large gin. “You’d better hope that’s true, for your sake. What did you get again? Three Fs and a D?”
“I got laid, that’s what,” I say. “And I got to have fun away from my arsehole father. To enjoy life.” I lean forward and pour myself a whiskey. I want a gin, really, but copying Rowan just wouldn’t be right. I bring it to my lips, tip my head back, down it in one gulp, then grin. “And I’m still enjoying life. I’m a master at that. No one can test me in that arena.” I imagine us cruising to the club with the top down on the shiny black BMW Eddie rented for our trip. Everyone will turn to stare.
My phone buzzes to life in my pocket. I get it out quickly and look at the screen. Yes. James Fink, my dad’s solicitor and family friend, on a video call. I can’t wait for the guys to hear this. The fortune I’m going to inherit? Just over a billion. Pounds, that is. Finally, my father’s done something good for me. Allow me to have endless fun for the rest of my life. I can picture the Caribbean villas, the yachts, the round-the-world cruises, the private planes, the long lines of beautiful celebrity women in bikinis clamoring to spend time with me. I’m set for life.
“Yeah, Mr. Fink!” I say, then maneuver the phone around so he can see Eddie and Rowan and Tim. “I’m having a drink with my old school buddies and Eddie. So, we can all hear the good news and drink to it.”
Mr. Fink purses his lips in a tight smile. He’s one of those guys who looks pulled tight by stress. Like he’s a rubber band ready to snap any minute. His voice is always tense. His brow is always furrowed. Even his skin looks dry and tight. He has these rimless glasses that show stressed eyes behind them, and his gray hair sticks up, too, as unrelaxed as the rest of him.
“We’ve finished estimating the total of your father’s estate, as well as his personal income,” he says. “So, now we can begin to look at the transfer process. You are the sole heir.”
Sole heir. There’s never been a sweeter phrase in the English language.
“Sounds good to me,” I say, feeling breezy. “So, what do you need from me? Birth certificate? Copy of my passport? Bank details?”
Mr. Fink rearranges papers on his desk. “I think we should have this conversation in private.”
“Nah, nah, it’s totally fine.”
“Privacy would be more appropriate.”
“Keep talking,” I say.
That stressed look tightens him even more, but he goes on. “I’m going to read this out to you. ‘I, Grayson Fairfax, Duke of Albany, declare that the transfer of my personal financial assets, gains from private investments not related to my estate, will only be made to my son, Grayson Fairfax II, under the following conditions—that he has found himself a suitable woman and announced an engagement with her. She should be respectable in character, but it matters not whether she has money or aristocratic title. Grayson II has to prove himself a settled and responsible heir who will not squander my money.’”
It’s a punch to the gut.
My father still hates me, even from beyond the grave. Engaged? I’d rather cut my own hand off.
“‘This engagement must happen within a period of thirty days from Grayson II being informed of the arrangement, and the chosen fiancée must pass the scrutiny of my solicitor and personal friend, Mr. James Fink.’”
Thirty days?
Rowan sniggers behind me, and I have an overwhelming urge to punch him in the face. Instead, I look at James Fink at his enormous desk in his English country house.
“This is a prank, right?” I say.
“Absolutely not,” he replies. “It is rather unusual, but… given the circumstances, you can understand why he took this course of action.”
“What circumstances?” I grate out.
He remains cool. “A duke having a charming yet irresponsible, fun-loving, and immature sole heir to his entire legacy.”
“You’re all way too serious.”
“This title is serious,” Mr. Fink says. “And it is a serious amount of money. While your father could not stop you from becoming an heir and inheriting his estate, he can stop you from inheriting his money.”
Yeah, yeah. “But I don’t have to do all that. I’m the sole heir. So I’ll automatically get it all anyway. And with the estate comes money.”
“No,” Mr. Fink says. “Your father’s estates and agricultural lands haven’t turned a profit in three years. The estate itself is destitute without your father’s personal assets. And, it says here if you do not complete the task, all your father’s personal assets, not related to the title and estate with pass to Edward Fairfax.”
Eddie’s mouth drops open. Fury leaps up inside me in hot flames. I’ll be Duke of Albany, of a useless, broke estate, while Eddie waltz away with the money.
“What?”
Yet more proof that my father despises me. That he could even get a parting shot in from his burning place in hell. I knew he’d always preferred Eddie. Just because Eddie sucked up to him and hid all his rebellion. The coward.
“Eddie’s just as fucked up as me. He might hide it, well, but it’s there.”
Mr. Fink nods. “Whether or not that’s the case, this is the arrangement your father has made, and we all have no choice but to honor his wishes.”
My mind is racing so much I can barely hold on to a single thought. “So, I have to find a respectable girl and get engaged within thirty days?”
“Yes. Otherwise, Edward Fairfax will inherit the money.”
Eddie shrugs. “I don’t want your dad’s money.”
“You have good money anyway.” I search his eyes to check if he’s being genuine. He looks it. He makes a lot trading foreign exchange. He’s not desperate for money.
“The thirty days begin now,” Mr. Fink says. “Contact me if you have any questions. Of course, you’ll have to bring her here to meet me, and I’d advise you to do so long before the thirty days are up. That way, we can be sure she is suitable.”
Fury clenches my stomach. “This is ridiculous.”
Mr. Fink purses his lips again. “You are free to
agree with the conditions, or disagree and give up your claim to the inheritance. It’s in your control.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I end the call and sit for a moment, in shock.
Everyone’s silent.
Tim’s the first to break the silence. “Go get Isabella Price,” he says, laughing. “She’s got respectable written all over her.”
“I’d rather die before I shacked up with that goodie-two-shoes.” I pour myself another whiskey and light a cigarette. “Engaged. What a load of shit.”
Rowan slaps Eddie on the back. “Congrats on the inheritance, bro. We’ll come to England to celebrate.”
I’m too far gone into my own zone to jump up and shoot something smart back. His comment barely even registers. What the hell am I going to do?
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say, springing to my feet. “Time to have a good damn time.”
Chapter 2
Isabella
DAY 2
“But I have all the paperwork here. All the figures are in perfect order. You can check everything. I’ve explained the situation and how it happened. The members of staff involved are no longer around.” Guilt burns inside me as I say that. I’m having to sell out my late dad. But it’s the only way to protect his legacy. “The company is under new management. You’ll have to reconsider.”
“Miss, I have told you numerous times why we cannot approve the loan,” the banker says, his eyes glazing over. He glances at his watch. It infuriates me.
“I want to speak to someone more senior.”
He draws out a long sigh.
“I’m not going to let this company die because you can’t see the sense in the figures.” My voice is coming out more pleading than I mean it to. “Let me see someone else. Please.”
He watches me wearily, then picks up his phone and makes a muttered call. “All right,” he says eventually. “Go sit in the waiting area out front. My manager will come to talk to you. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“Thank you.”
I jump out of the chair and fling the door open. There’s so much energy in my body desperate to get out. I need to fix this. Over my dead body will some demotivated teller kill my father’s business. Stop me from repaying him for all the sacrifices he made for me.
I settle into the waiting area, but my leg jiggles up and down. I look over the papers, willing the manager when he or she comes to take a look over them properly. Right now, there’s a lot of red. It doesn’t look good, I know that. But the next page is full of black, showing the profits we’ll start scraping back over the next few years. How to Save Your Dying Business Before It’s Too Late, which has been my Bible for the past few weeks, sits on top of all the papers, my glimmer of hope.
“Insufficient funds? You’re kidding, right? You know who you’re talking to?” The haughty tone travels across the space.
Oh, god. Some jackass with an entitlement complex. I look up to see the source—a tall, broadly built guy in a sharp suit throws his weight around in front of the teller. He has an upper-class English accent. Reminds me of Grayson Fairfax from school. He was an entitled jackass, too. Like the world owed him something. Like I owed him fawning and worship. But I’ve never been the fawning-and-worship type.
“There should be thousands of pounds in there!” he barks, throwing his arms up. “I don’t give a damn what you say. There must be a mistake. I want to see the manager. Right now.”
The teller keeps his cool, talking calmly.
“Right now!” the English guy explodes.
The teller points toward me, to the waiting area. Oh, help. I’m going to have to listen to his huffing and puffing for the next ten minutes.
The guy swaggers toward the waiting area. He shoots menacing looks all around that reek of do-you-know-who-I-am, just like he told the teller. And then I realize, with a sinking sensation in my stomach: it is Grayson Fairfax.
I scramble to open my book and duck my head into it. He’s about the last person on earth I want to talk to, especially right now.
I keep my head ducked but peek at him as he comes to sit down. He flops down right next to me, his legs long and strong and splayed out. My feet are crossed at the ankles, under me, and I try to make my body shrink. Please don’t notice me, please don’t notice me.
He releases a huge dramatic sigh then gets out his phone. I can see over his shoulder but keep my book carefully in place. He opens a messenger app. There’s a picture of an old rundown ambulance, sent from someone called Tim. It looks like an eBay listing. He scrolls down. The message reads, “Look at what you bought on your card last night when you were drunk!”
Gray lets out another sigh and hangs his head. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
I snigger before I even know what I’ve done. Then my gut constricts in panic.
He looks up at me, fire in his eyes. “Don’t fucking…” he trails off. “Isabella? Isabella Price?”
“Guilty.” This is so awkward. “Hello, Grayson.”
He tosses his phone on the empty chair next to him. “This day just gets better and better.”
“Nice to see you, too,” I say. My mind races for something rude to say. I want to hit him before he hits me. “At least you’ll have an ambulance to brighten your afternoon.”
He sneers, then looks at my book. I watch his eyes track over the accounts sheet on my lap, his eyes taking in all the red. I try to cover it, but it’s too late. “Looks like you’re doing really well for yourself.”
None of the debt is my fault. My father ran it up and never let me know, but he didn’t do it maliciously. He never shared our financial struggles with me. He wanted me to be happy and free. Then his partner continued the façade after his death. All they wanted to do was protect me. I can’t blame them. And certainly not to Grayson Fairfax, of all people. “There are ups and downs in life,” I say. “Character helps you get through them.” I nod at my own words, which sound good to me. “Character and values. Money isn’t everything.”
“You go live in the gutter, then. With all your character and values.”
Ugh. “I see you’re still Prince Charming.”
“And I see you’re still Ice Queen.”
He stares at me. He’s so good-looking it’s aggravating. He thinks he’s god’s gift to women and I should be fawning all over him. I know he does. I stare back, refusing to break eye contact. Those dark brown eyes bore into me, but I’m firm.
He eventually looks forward again and glowers at everyone in the bank as if they’re personally responsible for his life problems. I go back to my book, but my eyes skip all over the words, and I can’t take anything in.
“You know…” he says after a while, then leans in and looks up at me. His voice no longer drips with malice. It’s smooth, suave. “It’s obvious you’re in financial trouble. Maybe I can do something to help out with that.”
“Judging by the fact you have zero pounds, dollars, or yen in your account, I highly doubt it.”
He tuts with impatience. “That’s temporary. And this is the last time it will happen. Ever. If you get my drift.”
“This sounds like a Grayson Fairfax story. As vague and wildly optimistic as ever.”
“Have you forgotten who my father was?”
“How could I?” I snap, thinking about my own father. “Since you reminded us in school every five minutes. Have you thrown away all his money already?”
“Do you ever shut up and listen?”
I cross my arms across my failing-business book. “Spit it out.”
He looks around then pauses. “Not here.”
“Are trying to recruit me to the secret service?”
“You think you’re so smart. With an attitude like that, you must be single.”
“I don’t see how that’s your business.”
He smiles. “I knew it.”
“I suppose you have a harem back in your English mansion,” I say, trying to make my voice as cutting as possible. What is it
about him that gets under my skin like this?
“I don’t keep them long enough to build a harem,” he says with a laugh. “Anyway, are you going to sit here and sulk, and miss the opportunity of a lifetime? Or are you going to come with me?” He gets up and looks down at me.
I refuse to look up into those intense brown eyes. “I’m waiting for a manager.”
“Forget these arseholes. How much money are you looking for?”
I pause. “Six figures.”
“I can get you seven. Maybe even eight, if you’re a good girl.” He winks.
“I’m not sleeping with you for money, Grayson.”
He bursts out laughing. “I wouldn’t sleep with you if it was an edict from the Queen of England.”
I look down into my book and try to come up with something clever. My brain stays depressingly blank.
“Look,” he says, his patience waning. “It’s a business deal. Come for coffee and hear me out. You won’t be able to resist. But if you’re dumb enough to pass up the deal, you can come right back here and beg for your loan.”
I stand up and straighten out my skirt suit. He makes me feel so damn small. I force myself to look up and meet his eyes. “Fine. But you’d better make it good.”
“Oh, it’s good,” he says, already striding out. “It’s crazily good.”
Soon, we’re at the coffee shop. I want to maintain my Ice Queen demeanor, so a Frappuccino seemed like a good choice, but now every time I sip, the ice makes its way up into my brain, and I wince. I try not to let it show. My face has to be a mask he can’t read. I don’t want him to see the hope that keeps rising up when I think of the money.
I’m cynical. I mean, it’s Grayson Fairfax. I have to be cynical. But his connections to the moneyed are no joke. Every time he went back to England during the school breaks, we’d hear afterward about his exploits tearing up the young British aristocrat party scene. Playing polo with Prince William. Hitting a club with Prince Harry and staggering out after the sun had come up the next day. His friend using his father’s private jet without permission to whisk all his teenage friends off to Monaco. Perhaps in all that mess, he really did make some connections to help him. And if I play it right, to help me, too.