Holt, Her Ruthless Billionaire Read online

  But now I get it. Now I understand in a way I never could before.

  “Dad, I know Calsons aren’t supposed to apologize. I know you want me to stand strong against any obstacle like Grandpa. But I am not you. I am not Grandpa. And I am sorry I ever thought I could be. I am so sorry…”

  I trail off but my father picks up the thread easily enough. “You should have come to me sooner. As soon as you found out what that black bitch did, you should have come to me instead of letting me find out about it through the lawyers.”

  I shake my head in miserable agreement. “I know. I know that now. But I thought I could handle it,” I tell him again. “It should have been an open and shut case…”

  “Should’ve been but it wasn’t,” Dad says, curling his lip.

  “No, it wasn’t,” I agree with my own bitter sneer. “It wasn’t enough to get that reporter fired. Now it turns out he was colluding with Sylvie’s lawyer, and who knows how much she knows? Now Sylvie might tell everyone I have a black son.”

  Jack visibly startles. “Hold on, I thought you were suing for custody because you wanted to keep this boy and raise him as your own.”

  “No, of course I don’t! I’m actively searching for a new wife right now. But Sylvie is a wildcard I cannot afford. I needed full custody so I could send the kid away to some boarding school in Europe, or maybe Africa. Someplace where reporters won’t dig him up.”

  Now my father is the one shaking his head. “You should’ve told me…if I’d known—”

  He stops, as if thinking better of whatever he was going to say next.

  And in the next silent moment, I visibly lose all pride. “I’ve fucked it all up…I’ve fucked it all up,” I say on a cracked whisper, clasping my head in my hands and rocking back and forth in a way I have never allowed myself to do in front of him, for fear he would think I was like my mother. “And now I am going to lose everything. All because I was thinking with my dick instead of my brain.”

  “Son…” my father says in a stunned tone. But then, instead of telling me to man up, he gets out of his chair and comes to stand over me, placing a hand on my shoulder like he did the day he said I needed to go to rehab. “Listen to me, son. Listen! We are Calsons. We do not get taken down by the help, cuz there ain’t nothing we can’t fix. Do you understand?”

  “No, I don’t understand,” I answer, shaking my head frantically. “This can’t be fixed! The reporter’s dead—killed by some mugger—but Luca’s ex-wife is still representing Sylvie. They’re going to tell everyone about the boy and try to pin the reporter’s death on me!”

  My father grits his teeth. “No, they won’t,” he insists. “I’ll take care of that. Sylvie and her lawyer, too. Same way I took care of your reporter problem.”

  I stare up at him with shocked eyes before choking out, “The mugger. That was you?”

  Dad turns his back to me as he looks up at the portrait of his father, Hank Calson, that hangs above the den’s unlit fire place. “You know, it wasn’t just you he was after. That little prick reporter was sniffing around me, too. He came to my home, pretending to want an interview for the Sun’s Sunday section. Sat right where you’re sitting. But then he started asking me questions…about a few side deals I’d made, and some harassment suits I settled with female employees who knew better than to open their mouths. But still…”

  Dad’s eyes go dark with remembered anger. “I know his kind. Grew up on stories about Woodward and Bernstein, but settled for working at places like the Arkansas Sun. He thought he’d be the one to Harvey Weinstein me out of the legacy I deserve. But it wasn’t going to happen. And it ain’t ever going to happen because I made sure of it.”

  Dad turns around to face me, his expression twisted with righteous fury. “And if that black bitch thinks she is going to fuck over your life cuz she squeezed some half-nig out between her legs, she’s got another thing coming. No more negotiating. She is going to meet the same fate as the reporter, and that Helen Keller lawyer of hers, too. Because Calsons don’t get taken down. Not by reporters. Not by lawyers. And especially not by overstepping Jamaican bitches. You don’t need to worry about it, son. I am going to take care of all of this and make sure don’t none of it blow back on you.”

  “You really mean it, Dad?” I ask, still sniveling. “You had that reporter killed and you’d do the same to Sylvie and her lawyer. For me?”

  Big Jack gives a gruff shrug. “Well, it ain’t going to happen all at once, but yeah…yeah, I’ll do it for you. I know I didn’t turn out the way my dad wanted, but you did. I couldn’t shake my accent, but you…? You’re everything he ever wanted me to be. You even got his business brain! But the one downside of me letting that softheaded gal he made me marry raise you is you’re weak as shit. You might talk good, and Della told me you’re a natural at branding. But you ain’t got what it takes to preserve our legacy. But that’s okay, because I do. So, you go back to them New York offices and sit tight. I’ll get Arman on the phone and he’ll find someone to take care of it.”

  At the mention of using his personal bodyguard to take care of my Sylvie problem, I finally stop sniveling and stand up from the chair. I am so relieved that my eyes glisten as I say, “Thank you, Dad.”

  He smiles, broader than I have ever seen him smile. And he might have even said something sincere back…if men in dark coats hadn’t come rushing through the door of his study, throwing up badges and yelling “FBI!” before two of them pressed Big Jack into a wall and pulled his hands into plastic cuffs.

  I watch as the FBI agent reads off a list of charges they will be holding him on until further notice.

  In the coming days, more charges are added. People with and without NDAs will come forward with tales of extortion, sexual harassment, and lots of good old-fashioned racketeering. By the time his victims are done with him, Jack will have enough charges brought against him to spend the rest of his life in a minimum-security prison. But as it turns out, thanks to the freezing of his assets and my own suit against Meier, Swath, & Crane, the firm that did such a shitty job maintaining lawyer-client confidentiality, he’ll have no way to secure stellar representation.

  But I don’t know any of that for sure as I watch him get carted off, showing all his glossed over hillbilly roots as he curses the FBI, that damn reporter, and his nigger-loving son.

  Right then, I am feeling all sorts of mixed emotions. Regret…sadness…and the kind of bone-deep disappointment that comes with discovering how small your bigger-than-life parents really are.

  But most of all, I feel resolve. Resolve that I will never be like him.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “Dad!” Wes exclaims that night when I suddenly appear at the glass partition that serves as his suite’s bedroom wall. “What are you doing in here?”

  He’s already in bed. The same place he’s been ever since his failed attempt to get the judge to add him to Barron’s custody agreement. According to Mika, he claims he’s too sick to go to school. But other than lethargy, he has no other symptoms.

  I understand his surprise at seeing me here. Tish had his rooms moved to the west wing of the house a few years ago so we wouldn’t be awoken by his middle-of-the-night tantrums. And it’s probably been months since I stepped foot in my son’s bedroom, I think as I do the mental math to figure it out. But then I realize…no, it’s actually been years. The last time I was in his room, it had been to tell Wes his mother died just three weeks after we announced we were getting divorced.

  So yeah, this is going to be awkward for more reasons than one.

  Instead of answering his question, I take a seat at the end of his bed and say, “I was a little older than you are now when my mother died. Suicide. And my father was about as helpful to me afterward as I was to you.”

  I wait for Wes to respond. But he just sits up in bed, his red-rimmed eyes wide with shock. I go on…

  “I…I guess the only excuse I have for not being there for you is I never had good pare
nting. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a shitty parent. It simply didn’t occur to me that I could be there for you. And then Sylvie came along, and you seemed to be thriving with her. There you go, problem solved. That’s what I thought to myself.”

  I shake my head, and there is sincere regret in my tone as I say, “But the thing is, you’re not a problem to be solved. Or some task to be moved into my ‘done’ column. You’re my son. And what you said at the arbitration…”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Wes suddenly bursts out. “I don’t know why I said it. I was trying to get them to listen to me.”

  “No, no, I’m glad you said it. Glad you stood up for yourself and made Sylvie come here because I was doing such a piss poor job at being your dad. You were right. I have been fighting for Barron because of my pride. But I never fought for you. Not in the way you fought for him. The way you two continue to fight for each other despite all the adults trying to keep you apart. He’s the brother you deserve, and Wes…from now on…I’m going to try to be the father you deserve. But you’re going to have to help me. You have to tell me when I’m falling down on the job and demand better of me. That’s what I need you to do.”

  Tears are now falling unchecked from Wes’s blue eyes. But for once, they aren’t hysterical or an ominous sign of meltdowns to come.

  “Okay,” he says, his little voice cracking with emotion. “Okay, I will, Dad.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling awkward because I’m not sure what should come after this part.

  But then I think about Sylvie and ask myself what she would do…before tentatively opening my arms—

  My son is inside them within a blink of an eye. And I realize he has been waiting for me the way I’d been waiting for my dad all my life. And despite my shitty parenting, I finally feel like I am doing a good job at being this kid’s dad.

  Which, as Sylvie told me that day in my Little Rock apartment, is a start. And sometimes a start is all you need.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  SYLVIE

  “You are joking,” I say to my lawyer, because I know she must be.

  “If you heard my to-do list for today, you’d know I do not remotely have time to call my clients and make up stories about a 62-year-old former CEO trying to have the mother of his son’s lovechild killed,” Amber shoots back.

  No, I suppose she would not make time in her busy schedule to try to sell me on this tale. Still, I have to ask, “Are you sure about this? It was really Jack Calson and not Holt?”

  “According to the news, both he and his bodyguard were arrested this afternoon. And the FBI woman’s exact words were, ‘We’d like to meet with your client as we have reason to believe Jack Calson might have had a hand in a recent attempt on her life.’ And having been passed over for state’s evidence as a teen myself, believe me they would not have bothered to put in a call to you if they didn’t have a strong case against your baby daddy’s dad.”

  “Mom!” Barron calls from the other room.

  “Hold on a minute, I’m on the phone,” I call back to him. Then I ask Amber, “What does this mean? Do I still have to fight him for custody since Holt didn’t do it?”

  “Now that this is national news and beyond complicated, we’ll probably have to take it through the public court system. But I highly doubt any judge is going to remand a kid who has asked in writing not to be handed over to the father whose own father tried to have his mother killed. Man, just saying that feels like a tongue twister. See, it’s too complicated. And even if they do, I’d be all over them in the media with enough shame tactics to crash their stock.”

  “Mom!” Barron calls again.

  And this time, I do not even bother to answer him. “I’m so confused,” I tell Amber. “So you had Kyle Drinnen put into protective custody. And then somehow got a fake article about his death published in the Arkansas Sun. But why would Jack Calson confess just because he thought Kyle was dead?”

  “Actually, we have Holt to thank for the fake article and confession. I didn’t want to tell you until it was a done deal, but after talking with the FBI, he came to my office to—”

  “MAMA!!!” Barron yells right outside my door before Amber can finish.

  Amber chuckles and says, “Girl, relax. Go see what that genius son of yours wants and call me back after he goes to bed. I’ll be here to answer all your questions—have I mentioned this is the most exciting case I’ve had in, like, ever?”

  And as if to punctuate her invitation to hang up, Barron full on opens the door and yells, “Mama!”

  “Barron, hold on,” I hiss near the end of my last nerve with the boy I have been so worried about keeping up until now.

  But Barron does not hold on. Instead, he drops his voice to tell me, “Dad’s here!”

  Technically, Holt is allowed to be here, I think to myself when I walk into the living room of my Stamford apartment to find him sitting in the old recliner Aunt Judith loaned me until I can save enough to buy furniture of my own.

  He is dressed in a tailored suit and his shoes are so shiny, I could probably see my reflection in them if I bent down. This is how he dresses, I remind myself, but he makes the apartment I’d been so happy to find and afford feel small and squalid.

  I stand there, desperately wishing I could run away from this confrontation but not wanting to act like a coward in front of my son.

  “Barron, please go wait in your room. I will come get you when we are done.”

  “But, Mama…” he starts, his huge eyes eating up Holt like an archangel has come to pay visit,

  “You will not like it if I have to ask you twice,” I answer before he can finish that sentence.

  A moment of silence passes, then soft footsteps signal he’s decided today won’t be the day to see whether he’ll like it or not.

  Holt’s intense gaze shifts from me to our son, following him out of the room before it returns to me. “He reminds me of myself when I was a kid. I always thought I was smart enough to stay with the adults when my dad visited. And I never understood why they always sent me away.”

  “What do you want, Holt?” I ask. Then I brace myself, waiting for the latest threat.

  But after a long moment, Holt sighs and says, “Look…I…my father…”

  I wait. Fascinated because I have never seen him at a loss for words.

  But in the end, he huffs and says, “I’m dropping the suit for full custody.”

  I am not like Holt. I cannot hide my emotions behind a stony façade. My utter surprise registers across my face before I can stop it. But I recover quickly, composing myself before I say, “Yes, I heard your father was arrested for trying to kill Kyle Drinnen and plotting to kill me. So now this has become a case you cannot win.”

  “You think this is about me being afraid I can’t win against you in court?” He shakes his head, eyes hardening. But then just as quick, his expression goes soft again. “No, Sylvie, if I wanted to take full custody of Barron, I could. I’ve got the money and the power and that’s what my father would do. But…I’m not my father. I thought that’s who I had to become to get what I wanted, to keep myself from ever being hurt again. But turns out my father is a sociopath. He thinks power and money are more important than human lives. And I don’t care how upset I was with you, I would never have tried to kill you. And the fact that you think I would do that, even for a second, shows me how many wrong turns I’ve made with you.”

  He shakes his head again. “Listen, Sylvie, you know my story. Know how my mother died. I don’t have any excuses for the last few months, except that I couldn’t figure out any other way to keep you. I don’t…I’m not good with love, I guess. The last woman I truly loved killed herself, and I could see it coming but there was nothing I could do about it. She slipped through my hands. So, I held on to you. I tried to trap you, and I scared you enough to believe I wouldn’t be a good dad to Barron. I’m sorry for doing that.”

  I stare at him wide-eyed. Unable to believe the words coming out of
his mouth. “You are apologizing to me? Forgiving me?” I ask him. “Just like that? Even though I kept Barron from you all this time?”

  His eyes shift to the arched doorway Barron left through. “At the end of the day, he’s not completely fucked up. And that is because you raised him, not me. He’s great and smart and mentally stable, for reasons that have nothing to do with me. But instead of thanking you for being the parent I wasn’t capable of being, I tried to take him from you. Because of my pride. I’m sorry. But…I’m going to prove to you that I’ve changed. Weekends. That’s all I’m asking for now until I prove I can be the kind of dad you’ll want to share custody with.”

  I continue to stare at him in disbelief, not knowing what to say about his big change of heart…until suddenly, I do.

  “No,” I say to him.

  His body stiffens, going rigid as if my “no” has sent a bullet through his gut.

  “You won’t even let me have weekends?” he asks, his voice coarse with pained shock.

  “No, I won’t let you have weekends,” I answer, my tone hard. For the first time in my life, I feel strong in his presence.

  “Ten years ago, you fought to keep me from running. And then you fought to put us back together in Mexico. You tried to offer me everything I ever wanted in Arkansas, and I planned to run away from you again. Because even though I tried to be perfect, I’m not and I was afraid you’d reject and hate me when you found out just how imperfect I am. I was always trying to run before you could push me away like my mother. But I have one question for you now, Holt Calson. Do you love me? Even after I ran, even after I kept Barron from you. Do you still love me? Can you still love me?”

  His expression changes, his blue eyes softening as he answers, “Sylvie, with you it’s never been a matter of if I still love you. The real question, the only question, is will I ever be able to stop loving you. And the answer to that question is no.”