Beg For Me: Chapter 42

When I turn around, three curious faces are peering out at me from the front window. My mother, Harlow, and Brittany vanish from sight before I can pull open the door. When I get back to the kitchen, everyone’s sitting there like it’s a Norman Rockwell painting, all wide-eyed innocence and forced nonchalance.

I stop in the doorway and arch a brow. “Enjoy the show?”

My mother says, “Who was that?”

“Carter’s oldest brother.”

Harlow says, “He looks a little scary. Like he’s survived multiple assassination attempts.”

My mother nods in agreement. “Or carried them out.”

Brittany ventures, “I think he looked expensive.”

“He is. In every possible way.” I dump the rest of the coffee into the sink and throw the paper cup in the garbage. When I turn around, my mother says, “And?”

“And what?”

“What did he want? We saw you pointing like you were threatening him with a stick. Then you looked like you were going to slap him.”

“What, you couldn’t hear what we were saying? You were practically plastered to the glass.”

When they sit there staring at me in expectant silence that feels like it could go on forever, I give in. “He wanted to talk about Carter. Delivered an unsolicited monologue about love and loyalty, then handed me an invitation to a wedding I didn’t ask to attend.”

Looking at the cream-colored envelope in my hand, I sigh.

“Why would he want to talk to you about Carter?” asks Harlow, her brow furrowed. “Does he not like you dating him or something?”

“Oh no, actually, he’s all for it. There’s only one little problem. Carter broke up with me.”

My mother hoots and slaps the table. “Called it!”

I glower at her. “You might have brought me into this world, Carmelina, but make no mistake, I’ll gladly take you out of it.”

Harlow is dismayed by the news. “Why did he do that? You seemed so happy together!”

“Yes, we were happy together. Then it got complicated.”

My mother turns to Brittany and Harlow and says in a matter-of-fact tone, “Because her ovaries are expired. I told her this would happen.”

Aghast, I say, “Mother!”

“Grams, women don’t ‘expire’ when they get older,” says Harlow crossly. “That’s your internalized misogyny talking.”

My mother sniffs. “Internalized misogyny is just the bitter truth in a push-up bra.”

Harlow looks at me. “I’m beginning to understand what emotional sabotage is.”

My mother smiles. “That’s my love language.”

Brittany redirects the conversation away from our familial dysfunction. “Okay, but why were you invited to a wedding after this guy broke up with you?”

“Apparently, it’s all part of some grand scheme to get him to fall at my feet…never mind. It’s insanity.” I drop into the nearest chair and rub my aching temples.

“But you’re going, right?” Harlow insists, leaning in.

“Did he actually say ‘fall at your feet’?” asks Brittany, leaning in.

“Verbatim. And I don’t know if I’m going or not.”

“Psh,” says my mother, waving that imperious hand of hers. “You’re going. You’ve already picked out the outfit.”

God, I really hate it when that woman is right.

I leave Brittany with my mother and strict instructions not to do anything until I get home, then drop Harlow off at school. The unexpected visit from Callum cut into my morning and left my brain askew, so I wasn’t able to think of anything to do with Brittany.

If there’s a home for unwed mothers awaiting the birth of a child, it probably costs nearly as much as assisted living does for the elderly, so I doubt that’s a possibility. She could stay at Nick’s for a while, but if his lease really is up like he told her, she’ll soon be on the street. With her mother not a possibility, and no other family or friends to fall back on, she’s facing homelessness.

What cosmic joke of an alternate universe am I living in that I’ve somehow become the only thing saving my ex-husband’s pregnant, discarded girlfriend from disaster?

I console myself with the thought that perhaps this is all a test, and I’ll be rewarded handsomely in the afterlife for my perseverance.

Unless there isn’t an afterlife, in which case, I’m just screwed.

Depressed, I head to work. I haven’t been seated at my desk more than ten minutes when Alex bursts in.

“Did you hear? Oh my God, it’s so crazy! I can’t believe it!”

“Hear what?”

Alex doesn’t answer right away. She’s too busy shutting the door, dropping her satchel on the floor, and nearly tripping over a leg of a chair as she rushes over to me, eyes gleaming, grinning like a fiend.

“They’re trending. Hartman and Lorraine. Full names, on every platform.”

My blood runs cold. “Trending how?”

Alex is so excited, she’s almost frothing at the mouth. “You haven’t seen the video? It’s all over the internet.” She whips out her phone, tapping on it and muttering, “Hang on, hang on…okay, here.” She shoves the phone into my hand.

The screen lights up with a paused video. I recognize the conference room. I recognize Hartman, standing at the head of the table. Lorraine is seated to his right, her expression slightly smug. Everything looks normal…until I hit play.

“Oh no,” I whisper, horrified.

“Oh yes!” says Alex, bouncing on her toes.

It starts innocently enough. A dull meeting with the board, people filing out, the door closing behind them. Then Lorraine stands, walks over to Hartman and starts…undressing him.

Then there’s kissing. Passionate, dramatic, soap-opera kissing, right in the middle of the boardroom. He lifts her onto the table. Papers scatter everywhere. Clothes are torn off. Then there’s moaning, groaning, a wildly implausible moment with a stapler that makes my face go hot just watching it.

Alex snorts with delight. “I swear to God, that part where she hollers, ‘Staple me harder!’ is going to be a meme.”

I hand the phone back like it’s radioactive. “That’s not real.”

“Of course it’s real! She even has lipstick on her teeth like usual!”

But I know she’s wrong. That video is a deepfake. Exactly the kind of thing I worried they’d do to me.

Which means someone—and I have a good idea who—just turned their own weapon on them.

“They’re denying it,” Alex continues, “but there’s already a formal investigation. The board has gone into panic mode. Someone leaked the video to the press anonymously, along with screenshots of emails and texts between them talking about financial misconduct, retaliation against employees, and how promotions were exchanged for sexual favors. It’s a total digital paper trail! HR’s in meltdown mode. Page Six is running with the headline Boardroom & Bedroom: Execs Exposed in Corporate-Sex-For-Secrets Scandal. And that’s not even the juiciest part!”

I don’t ask what the juiciest part is. It doesn’t matter.

I already know it’s all fabricated.

Every word and image is engineered. And plausible enough to bury them. If I hadn’t known what Lorraine was capable of, what she threatened to do to me, I’d believe every word of it.

I feel faintly nauseated.

Alex claps her hands together gleefully. “Hartman called in sick.” She makes air quotes around the word. “And Lorraine is holed up in her office. Security was called when people heard her screaming on speakerphone and a crash like a crystal vase was dying a violent death.”

I stare at my monitor, trying to control the shaking in my hands. I suppose I should feel relief at this unexpected turn of events, but instead, I’m totally disoriented.

“What are they saying about who might have leaked it?”

“Nobody knows for sure, but Hartman and Lorraine both have plenty of enemies. Some people think it was one of the board members trying to take them down, or one of the employees they talked about in their emails. Whoever it was, they definitely had an axe to grind.” She laughs in delight. “And I fully support morally gray workplace revenge as a form of self-care.”

I want to groan and cover my face with my hands, but that would only scream “guilty!” so I keep my face a mask of forced surprise and shake my head in fake disbelief.

I glance over at the bench next to the door where my handbag rests. The invitation to the wedding sticks out of the dark mouth of the bag like a dare.

Or a warning.

When I recall Callum’s words to me earlier this morning, a chill runs down my spine.

“You’re part of the family now. Your problems are our problems. And we’re going to solve them.”

I mistook that for exaggeration. But apparently, he was being dead serious.

I’m not sure I want to be a part of his “family.” On the other hand, that kind of power could be extremely useful.

Should I run for the hills or give him a list to work from?

I glance at my computer screen as Alex flutters out the door, whistling to herself and no doubt desperate to spread the next wave of gossip. The office hums quietly beyond the door, but inside, the silence presses close.

I turn to my bag, the corner of the invitation sticking out like a beckoning finger.

Maybe not a warning, but a gesture instead.

Callum had meant it as a peace offering. Maybe even a plea. He wants me and Carter back together, he made that abundantly clear. For a man who looks like he negotiates arms deals over breakfast, he was oddly sincere.

Annoying and high-handed, but sincere.

Which might be the most unsettling part. Because if this is what the McCords do when they believe in someone, what happens if they stop?

I pull the envelope from my bag, remove the invitation nestled inside, and run my thumb across the heavy paper. It’s absurdly elegant. Gold ink, embossed lettering, the kind of stationary that says this event has a security team and a wine cellar older than your parents. It’s dated two weeks from today. The location is San Ysidro Ranch in Santa Barbara.

I recognize the name. It’s a place so private, it might as well exist in another dimension. An historic enclave with stunning views, lush gardens, and a celebrity pedigree. An ultra-exclusive hideaway for the rich and famous, it’s the perfect place for a billionaire’s storybook wedding.

I have no doubt the McCords will ensure not a single photograph of the event makes it into the papers.

My cell phone dings with a text. It’s from Val. I stare at the screen a moment, absorbing the words.

Heard about Carter and that whole TriCast mess. Are you okay?

Simple and direct. She’s always been like that. No frills, no emoji-laced platitudes. I’m suddenly filled with gratitude for her and Ev. I can’t imagine being like Brittany with not a single girlfriend who has her back.

I’m fine. Just trying to stay out of the blast radius.

I hit send, then pause, thumbs hovering.

Also, I might be attending a wedding in Santa Barbara hosted by a family of emotionally repressed billionaires. TBD.

I send it before I can second-guess myself. The reply bubbles pop up instantly.

But it isn’t Val who answers.

No need to RSVP. We’ll have a place for you. And we’re not emotionally repressed, we’re selectively expressive. ~ Callum.

I stare at the message. I blink, then stare again.

I don’t know which is more disturbing, that Callum intercepted a message meant for my best friend or that he’s responding in real time as if he’s been lurking in my digital shadow all along.

Furious, I type back Selectively expressive, my ass. Now get the hell off my phone, Callum, and don’t come back!

My answer is a thumbs-up emoji. Then our messages disappear, leaving only the texts between Val and me.

If that was supposed to be a show of the kind of power he and his family have, it definitely worked.

I was wrong when I thought the McCords might be in the Mafia.

I think that family is actually far, far more dangerous. At least the Mafia has rules.

The McCords have unlimited funds, unlimited power, and morals so questionable, they might actually consider ethics a liability.

They make the Mafia look like a bunch of kindergarten kids fighting on the playground.

I mutter, “Maybe going to this wedding isn’t such a good idea after all.”

When my desk phone rings, I pick it up, still distracted. “Hello?”

“It’s a great idea,” says Callum, his voice low and amused as if we’re sharing a secret. “You’ll have some champagne, eat some cake, make my brother grovel on his knees. What’s not to like?”

“Do you make it a habit to aggravate your brother’s ex-girlfriends?”

“Only the ones who’re going to be his wife.”

“I’m not going to be his wife.”

“We’ll see.”

“Stop talking like this is a hostile takeover. I’m a human being, not a corporation.”

He chuckles. “Touchy.”

“That’s it. I’ve officially decided I don’t like you. And leave me alone!”

“Sure thing. See you at the wedding. Oh, and you don’t have to drive. We’ll send a car. Be ready at ten a.m.”

I slam down the receiver before I can say anything I’ll regret, cutting him off and ending the conversation.

So at least one good thing happened today.

Now, if only I can book a one-way trip to Antarctica where I’ll live in a snow cave, raise penguins, and pretend I never met a McCord, I’ll be all set.