Rich Girl Problems (8 page)

“Oh, yes. I just wanted to be sure I got everything.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“I believe I did. Is there anything else you'd like to add before I go?”

“No.” Milan smiled. “I believe I've said it all.”

“I believe so,” Shakira agreed as she and the photographer quickly gathered their things. “Thank you so much for the interview.”

“You're welcome. I can't wait to see this in print,” Milan said as she walked her company to the front door, where a sudden shadow of nervousness covered her. She did her best to inconspicuously soothe her disquiet as she slowly looked from side to side. Nothing.

“Take care, Milan,” Shakira said as she and the photographer waved and disappeared down the tree-lined Westchester street.

Breathe . . .

Milan stepped into her foyer and as she turned to close her door, she locked gazes with a stranger in the distance and her heart stopped.

C
haunci came just short of spilling her iced caramel macchiato all over herself as she planted her pencil heels in a sudden stop.

Maybe I didn't get off on the twenty-seventh floor.
Her eyes scanned the massive lobby. It looked faintly familiar.

She faced the camera and squinted. “Did we get off?” She paused. This cameraman was new to the show and he'd never been to her office. He was simply following her lead.

She glanced over at the frazzled woman sitting behind the sleek red counter, wiping tears away.

Is that Julie?

Why is she crying?

That can't be Julie because this is not my office.

Chaunci's eyes swept the brick wall behind the counter where the logo for her publishing company, Morgan Enterprises, usually hung. It was no longer there. All of the walls were bare and there were men in blue T-shirts and matching Dockers coming and going, brushing past her and barking orders about where to place things. She watched two of them pick up a long, wide sign that read “Preston Publishing” and hang it on the wall behind the crying and frazzled woman.

I'm in the wrong place.

Chaunci turned toward the door when she suddenly heard, “Ms. Morgan!” from behind her. “Where are you going?!” She whipped back around and the crying woman, now standing, pointed at her.

That's Julie. Am I going crazy?

Julie, Chaunci's protégée and front desk receptionist, a usually happy, overzealous, overtanned twenty-three-year-old, wiped tears from her beet red face. “You're just going to leave?!” Julie screamed. “I can't believe I looked up to you. I thought you were honest! Truthful! I considered you to be like family!”

Chaunci walked over to Julie, placed her clutch purse and her macchiato on the counter. She reached for Julie's hands and enclosed them between her palms. “Jules, I need you to calm down and tell me what's going on here.”

Julie babbled, “Some man walked in here like he owned the place—”

“What man?”

The babbling continued. “And these men! I told them to stop, but they ignored me and they kept moving things!”

“Who gave them permission to do that, and where did they take my things?”

“And Harry . . .”

“Harry? The mail clerk?”

“Yes. He clutched his heart, saying he had too much child support for shit like this! I thought he was going to die! Dear God! I just knew he was dead when he passed out!”

“Passed out?”

“And I feel horrible because now everyone suspects he's on the down low all because I called the paramedics, and they ripped opened his shirt and he was wearing a purple lace bra beneath it! Everybody's gone crazy!” she screamed. “I called my daddy and he told me to get back to Iowa immediately. But I don't have any money! I can't believe you would do this to me!”

“Julie—”

“Good morning,” drifted over Chaunci's shoulder. “It looks as if my business partner has finally arrived.”

Chaunci dropped Julie's hands and turned to her left. Her eyes rose from a pair of black Tanino Crisci loafers to a hand sewn, ash gray Italian suit that lay perfectly over the six-foot-two, athletic frame of a broad-shouldered and bronze-colored man with sea green eyes, a full stubble beard, and a casual, short-cropped haircut. With his hands in his pants pockets, he leaned against the door frame of her private office.

“Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?” Before he could answer, Chaunci looked at Julie. “Call security!”

The unknown man walked over to Chaunci and without hesitation said, “Don't ever speak to me like that again, and especially in front of an employee.”

Chaunci shook her head and blinked. “What? Rewind. Stop the goddamn press! Employee? Are you fuckin' crazy?!”

“I think you should calm down and we should discuss this in my office.” He pointed over to the door where her private office used to be. She noticed her nameplate, which used to hang on the door, was gone. She walked over and ran a hand across the empty space.

“Where the hell is my nameplate?” Chaunci said, more to herself than to him. She peered at him. “I don't know who you think you are—”

“Thoughts are not definitive. And I am
definitely
Grant Preston. The Third.”

“Well, Grant Preston.
The Third
. You have me, Chaunci Morgan.
The First
. Fucked up. Because you don't have an office up in this bitch! And I don't take kindly to random
motherfuckers
raiding my business. Now I don't know if you are off your medication, you need some, or you have escaped from some damn mental institution, but I can assure you that your crazy ass will be dragged out of here in handcuffs!” She rushed back over to the counter and pounded both fists on it. “JULIE!”

“YES!” Julie jumped nervously to attention.

“Knock off that damn crying! I told you to call security!”

“I did!”

“Then where the hell are they?!” Out of her peripheral view, Chaunci spotted her missing sign being carried by two movers. She ran over and blocked their path. “Put that down! Where the hell is SECURITEEEEEE!” She stomped her feet.

“We're right here, Ms. Morgan!” The lead security guard pushed open the glass door as he and another guard rushed in. “What's going on?”

Chaunci's eyes popped out. “That's a good goddamn question because I don't know what's going on! All I know is that that asshole”—she pointed—“has demolished my office. Stolen my things! Those two monkey asses are carting my damn sign out of here! My secretary has lost her ever-lovin' mind, and I have no idea where my other employees are!”

Grant interjected, “After the mail guy passed out and the paramedics seemingly forced him out of the closet, I gave our staff two days off and instructed them to come back on Thursday. I thought it would give us a couple of days alone to discuss some things. Julie insisted on staying, so I let her.”

“Are you insane?! ‘
Our
employees'? There's no ‘
our
employees'!” Chaunci whipped back toward security. “Why haven't you arrested him?!”

“Ms. Morgan, please calm down,” the guard said.

“Calm down? This is calm!” Chaunci exploded. “If I wasn't calm, his ass would be set on fire by now! Charred! Now lock his ass up!”

“I can't do that,” the lead guard insisted.

“Oh, pardon me. I forgot you were only armed with a flashlight and building keys.” She turned back toward Julie. “Call the police. They shoot first and ask questions later.”

“They won't be able to do anything either,” the guard added. “The person standing next to you is Mr. Preston, the new owner of Morgan Enterprises. And no one can remove him from his own establishment.”

Chaunci paced and then stopped abruptly. She walked over to the camera, looked into it, and said, “Am I being punk'd?”

The cameraman didn't respond.

“ANSWER ME!” she yelled.

“Chaunci”—Grant stood in front of her—“if you would allow me a moment to speak to you in my office—”

“You don't have a damn office!” she said through clenched teeth.

“I just want to go back to Iowa,” Julie cried.

“Shut the fuck up!” Chaunci screamed at her. “I don't want to hear another word from your whiny ass!”

Grant reached for Chaunci's hand and held it softly. “Just give me a few moments alone with you.”

Chaunci snatched her hand and pointed her fingers like a makeshift gun and pushed them into his face. “Touch me again and I will drop kick the shit out of your big ass!”

“This conversation is finished.” Grant looked over at Julie. “If you want to continue to work here I need you to collect yourself. And after you collect yourself, I need you to pull the financial reports from the last two years so that I can fully understand why we're in the red and what needs to be done to return us back to the black.” He slid off his suit jacket, tucked it under his right arm, and glided back to his new office.

Everyone, including Chaunci, stood silently stunned.

“Julie,” Grant's voice came through the intercom, which sat on her desk, “after you pull the reports, I need you to grab me a cup of Starbucks Colombian roasted and a buttered baguette.”

Click.

“Julie,” Chaunci said. “You. Better. Not. Pull. Or. Order. Him. Shit.” She stormed into what was once her office and instantly felt her breath being siphoned away. Her office, as she knew it, was no more. Instead, it had been cleaned out and replaced with a heavy, dark mahogany bureau, a black leather executive roller chair, a matching sofa, a Tiffany desk lamp, and two bookcases loaded with financial diaries, binders, a framed Oxford business degree; and a signed picture of Babe Ruth.

Chaunci stepped into the office and slammed the door in the cameraman's face. He opened it and slid into the room. Chaunci took a deep breath, but before she could say anything, Grant said, “If you came in here to continue your tantrum, then you will have to leave. However, if you came to speak about our current situation, then please, have a seat.”

Cuss. His. Ass. Out.

No. Try a different approach.

Chaunci arched her brow and as calmly as she could, asked, “Who are you? Why are you here? And why does security think you own the place? When
we both
know that you
don't
.”

“I've told you that I'm Grant Preston. The Third. Grant Alexander Preston. The Third. To be exact. And as of last Friday, I own fifty-one percent of the company formerly known as Morgan Enterprises.”

Formerly?
“Excuse me.”
What did he say?
“Repeat that.”

“As of last Friday, I own fifty-one percent.”

“I thought that's what you said.”

“Listen, why don't we take a minute to regroup. Obviously this is upsetting for you. So, I tell you what. You should go home, relax for a few hours, and let me take you to dinner tonight. I'll call the owner of Le Bardin, reserve the entire restaurant for the two of us—which means you leave your fiancé at home—and we can discuss the changes around here.”

She resisted the urge to slap his face. “Not even . . . if you were . . . the last white motherfucker on earth.” Chaunci stood up, tucked her clutch beneath her right arm, and stormed out.

D
on't. Fuck. With. Me!
oozed from the glare Vera shot Taj's receptionist as she stormed through the waiting area, past the billing clerks' desks, and into Taj's office, where he sat, eyes combing his computer screen.

“HOW DARE YOU?!”
She slammed the office's glass door, causing the blinds to shake and the frosted glass to shiver.

Taj didn't flinch as he lifted his eyes over the screen and looked at Vera, unimpressed. Judging by his smirk, she knew her arrival was no surprise. Taj rose from his chair and sat on the edge of his desk.

Vera wanted nothing more than to slap the shit out of him. She settled on invading his personal space and pointing a finger in his face. “You don't put no fuckin' restraints on me! First, you want half of my money; then you have me locked the fuck up; and
now
you don't want me within ten thousand feet of yo' ass! Who the fuck do you think you are?! I will come and go as I please, and if yo' ass happens to be in the vicinity, then you leave, because I will not be going anywhere! I'm not letting you or that ridiculous-ass piece of paper control me!”

“Oh, really?”

“You heard what the hell I just said! And I will not be dropping our daughter off at a police station so you can retrieve her for visits! You may as well hang up that dumb shit. If you want to see our child, then you come to my house and pick her up. Otherwise, you will be shit out of luck! You are acting like a damn fool!”

“
I'm
acting like a damn fool?” He looked surprised and pointed to his chest. “But you're in my office, around my staff and my patients, acting ridiculous.”

“I'm not acting ridiculous . . . yet. But don't make me take it there. Because I will.”

“And you'll be handcuffed and carted out of here.”

“So now you want to send me back to jail and humiliate me even more! I don't know what I did to you!”

“You don't recall breaking in to my penthouse and vandalizing it?”

“I didn't vandalize it. You wanted to half our shit, so I started with yours!” She paced from one end of the room to the other.
This motherfucker is trippin'.
She rushed back over to him and again pointed into his face. “Where the hell do you get off asking for half of my shit?! You have your own goddamn money!”

“Didn't you file for divorce?” he asked, matter-of-factly.

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. You filed for divorce and I want half. And I'm not budging off that. Period. You want to throw the towel in. You want to be done with our marriage, then it's going to cost you.”

“I'm not giving you half of a damn thing! You can kiss my ass!”

Taj chuckled. “If only you knew how much I miss doing that.”

“What is this? A game to you?”

“It's not a game to me.” He stood up and the only thing that could slither between them was air, and even that was a struggle.

Taj continued, “This is my life. You're my life. And you know that. That's why you keep pushing your limits. Your problem is, I pushed you back and you didn't expect that.” He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her deeper into his chest.

Vera did all she could not to get lost in his touch. “Get. Off. Me!” She attempted to push his hands off her waist, but he didn't budge.

“Stop it.” Taj locked into her gaze. “Just stop.”

“Taj.”

“Just admit that you're scared.” He stroked her hair and she bit her bottom lip.

“I'm not scared!”

“Vera.”

“I'm pissed.”

“The truth. Say it.”

Don't say a word.
“I can't.” She dropped her head.

“Why?”

Because this is not the time.
She looked back into his eyes.
And yes, I miss you. My body aches for you. My nipples haven't been the same without your sucks and soft bites. My belly misses the sweeping of your dreads sliding over my skin. My legs miss you parting them, kissing my inner thighs before making your wet way over my creamy mountain. I miss you kissing my ass. Literally. And my pussy misses you reaching your peak and leaving warm and liquid traces of your love.

I miss the hell out of you. I miss your cologne, your smile, your laughter. I miss you sitting between my legs and me twisting your dreads. I miss telling you anything and everything. . . .

“Talk to me.” He lifted her chin. “I'm listening. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere.”

“It's just that . . .”

“What?”

All of these years I thought you were perfect. And I spent so much time trying not to fuck up . . . and for you to confess that when we broke up, you slept with someone else and out of that came a son—I just don't know what to do with that! And every time I think about it, it snatches my breath. I feel stifled. Emotionally asthmatic.

“Talk to me.” He kissed her softly.

Don't cry.

“Tell me.” He kissed her again.

“I'm scared.” She kissed him back.

“Of what?” He held her by the waist. “We can work through this.”

“What do you want from me, Taj?”

“I want you. All of you. I want you to be honest with me and with yourself. Just tell me how you really feel. I know you're hurt because of my son.”

She took a step back and his hands fell from her waist. “We had a son!”

“He died.” He pulled her back to him.

“So you think Aidan is a replacement?!”

“I never said that. He can never replace our son.”

“Then why are you pushing him on me?! I don't hate him. I just—just can't deal with it! I feel like I'm drowning when I'm around him!”

“He didn't do anything to you, Vera. He's just as much my child as Skyy is, and I know this is difficult for you.” He wiped her tears. “It's hard for me too. But he's my son and I have to be a part of his life. I can't leave my son because you can't accept him.”

“I don't want you to leave him. I would never ask you to do that!”

“Then let's fix this, baby.” He kissed her softly. “Let's work on it. Let's put our family back on track.” He kissed her again.

Vera shook her head. She hated that she couldn't stop the tears from falling.
Stop fuckin' crying! Weak bitches cry before a man. You know that. Aunt Cookie has told you that a thousand times. Strong women cry at home, alone.
She wiped her eyes and looked at Taj. “This can't be fixed.”

Taj shook his head in disappointment.

“I'm not weak,” she insisted.

“Crying doesn't make you weak.”

“And I'm not stupid!”

“And it doesn't make you stupid either.”

“I don't hate your son!”

“I know you don't.”

“I just don't want to be his stepmother!”

“So what are you saying?”

“I'm done. Fuck yesterday. And fuck that blended-ass dream you're trying to sell me! You fucked some bitch and got her pregnant! Hell yeah, I'm divorcing you!”

Taj shook his head in disbelief, and Vera could tell by the look in his eyes that she'd stabbed another wound into him. He stepped away from her. “You need to take a long and hard look at yourself. Nothing is ever your fault. You always find a way to blame it on someone else. I'm tired. I love you, but I'm tired. This is a marriage, and yes, we both made mistakes. And I miss you. I miss the hell out of you. I long for you, but I
will not
chase you. And I can't do things all over again. Your problem with Aidan is not that he's my son; it's that he's not your son. And I can't change that. And I can't bring Taj Jr. back. I can't. He was born prematurely and he died. You need to deal with that. But if you want to continue to play pretend, then you will do that alone. And if you want a divorce, then fine. But you will pay for it.”

“I'm not giving you half of shit!”

“The judge will decide that.” Taj opened his office door and his secretary stood with a nervous smile and a glass in her hand while three of the nurses scurried away. He looked over at Vera and pointed toward the hallway. “You need to roll up outta here because right about now you are in violation of your restraining order.”