Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
I stand, stopping him mid-sentence.
“Excuse me? I didn’t half-heartedly do anything. There’s nothing concrete to investigate. I’m chasing fucking ghosts.”
“Absolutely, sir. Frustrating. Be that as it may, if you squelch these stories now, it’s going to look like you’re silencing legitimate accusations. Especially with no evidence to disprove them.”
I sigh. “How the hell am I supposed to prove a negative? Isn’t my father innocent until proven guilty?”
“Yes,” Truman answers.
At the same time, Bradley says, “No.”
I glare at him.
“I mean, Truman’s right about the legal system. But that’s not how the court of public opinion works,” Bradley says.
Shit.
I don’t like it, but he’s right.
I have to let this catastrophe play out publicly, or I’m so completely screwed I’d need to pull a direct confession out of Simone’s ass to ever set things right.
By then, it won’t matter.
Not if a court wrestles with the case for years, deciding whether or not the claims are scandalous.
Once Royal Cromwell gets pegged as a womanizing predator, the story will stick.
It will tarnish the whole company.
It may even mean he’s ripped out of his cozy little nursing home and thrown into a state mental hospital, where he’ll spend his dying days.
“Have you managed to speak to either woman?” Bradley asks.
“Wickes. I can’t get Oakes on the phone.”
“You probably won’t,” Truman says. “Any attorney worth their salt will advise them not to take any off the cuff calls.”
“What did Wickes have to say?” Bradley asks.
“Nothing useful. All she said was that my dad was a lonely man and he tried to fix it the wrong way,” I say.
“We need a PI,” Truman says. “Otherwise, we’re going to be limping along with our shields down.”
“If you think it will help, do it,” I say.
He nods. “I’ll have one ready to go by end of day.”
“In the meantime, what do I do?”
“Legally? Or are you asking what’s best for the company?” Truman asks.
“The second.” I guess.
“Until we’ve gotten to the bottom of these accusations, there isn’t much we can do,” Bradley tells me. “If it’s Royal’s legacy you’re worried about, you could start a content campaign focusing on all the good he did during his life. Though that could backfire once stories start circulating. Regardless, I’d advise you to increase brand awareness campaigns to spotlight Cromwell-Narada’s accomplishments. It’s damage control at this point. The company is likely to have a PR stain for a while no matter what we do, even when the allegations are disproven.”
When. He said when, not if.
Bradley doesn’t believe it’ll amount to anything, but I can’t be so sure Ava Wickes was lying either.
She never trashed him on the phone, though.
That doesn’t sound like a woman with an axe to grind, or someone who would’ve seen my father as a monster.
When the meeting ends, I follow them to the door and close it behind them.
Goddamn.
I don’t know what to think anymore.
I’m certainly not thinking as I storm across the room, grab Dad’s paintings from the wall, and hurl them on the floor.
“Did you do it or not? Don’t make me hate you.” I catch myself, flattening my wounded hand against my desk for balance.
If my father really was a cheating, predatory fuck, I’ll never forgive him.
But the only person in the room I can’t forgive right now stares back when I turn, catching my reflection in the window.
My father hurting women is only hypothetical.
I already did.
I refuse to let her face crystalize in my head as I throw myself back behind my computer, sign in, and pretend to be productive.
If only I could lie to myself as easily as I bullshitted Jenn.
Every worn second I’m wasting my life without her brings back her teary, red face and the look of shocked betrayal after I forced her heart through a meatgrinder.
If only I could be the man I still hope my father is, I might have had a life with Jennifer Landers.
23
No Sweet Dreams (Jenn)
It’s been weeks since the whole incident at the coffee shop with Miles and the ugly past that ruined a future I didn’t know I desperately wanted.
Weeks since I tasted his kiss and shuddered underneath him.
Weeks without him here, watching summer give up its warmth to autumn with the first brilliant ribbons of color in the trees, the crispness in the air, the rains coming more often.
Weeks, weeks, and only a lifetime left to go.
Sigh.
As soon as I came back to Pinnacle Pointe, I threw myself into the inn. I’ve hired a few part-timers and decided to do a limited test reopening before winter. Just a few rooms at a time.
It’s kept me busy and shaves a few minutes off dwelling on Miles every day. It also helps that he hasn’t been back at his place since the sky started falling.
“Jenn, we have a problem,” Maria says, peeking into the old storage closet Gram converted into a back office in the main building. She’s a pleasant young lady who greets everyone with a grin.