The Billionaire’s Promise (His Submissive #8)(12)
Author: Ava Claire

The waiter came back and Rachel ordered a dish so full of substitutions that she was better off creating her own menu item, recipe and all.

The rest of us picked at our appetizer and downed our drinks, hoping our lack of entree would inspire her to go away and if not, we’d be so buzzed that we didn’t care.

Rachel grinned around her straw before taking a hearty sip. “Thanks so much for having me, guys. What are we up to after dinner?”

“That’s it.” Megan shook her head vigorously, her locks singeing the air as she swished it back and forth. “I’m not gonna sit here and act like this isn’t bizarre. And I’m certainly not gonna play nice with the psycho woman that’s intent on ruining you, Leila.”

“Megan–”

“I get it. Appearances. You are clearly better at it than me and I can’t do it.”

Jacob pulled out his wallet and dropped a hundred and slid out behind her without another word. I moved out to join the procession, but Rachel shot out her leg, blocking me in.

“You think this is over? That Alicia Whitmore is all I have up my sleeve?” Her face was hot with animosity. “You think I’ll let you have him?”

I leaned in. “It’s been over. Now move your leg.”

“I’m going to be your shadow. Wherever you go, I go.” She gave me a withering glare. “Watch your back.”

I vaulted from the booth, almost wishing she hadn’t moved so I could plow through her.  Flashes followed us out the door and we parted ways with Megan, promising that our next dinner would be drama free.

“I had fun until she walked in,” Jacob sighed heavily, opening the car door.

“Me too,” I chewed on my bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at me strangely. “Why are you apologizing?”

I reached out and closed the door. I was apologizing because I knew Rachel would never apologize for what she’d done. And I had a sinking feeling she was just getting started. Rachel was a lost cause—but I could still fix things with his mother.

****

It was no secret that Jacob thought I was wasting time trying to talk it out with his mother. When she pulled open the door and looked at me like I was walking plague, I almost tucked tail and ran. There was a part of me that told me no good would come from it. I’d open up and try and explain why her proposition hurt and she’d answer with a shrug and a resounding ‘so’. Or worse–she’d call security.

Her eyes took me in with disdain. “I’m assuming you don’t moonlight as a maid,” she said. “Though it that get up…”

I didn’t get offended. I was sure she had much worse up her sleeve. “No, I’m not the maid.”

“Then why did you come here?” she frowned. “Did Jacob send you?”

“No,” I replied. “In fact, he told me coming here would be pointless.”

“And still you came.” It wasn’t surprise or admiration at my pluck–it was something else. Almost like…curiosity. Still, she wasn’t putting out the welcome mat. “Tell me why I should let you in and not call down to the front desk. I mean, my son pays well, but not well enough for you to be in this building without a nametag and janitor’s cart.”

She was right. I’d been speechless when I stepped into Jacob’s building downtown for the first time, but after I’d convinced the doorman I had business at the Clinton Hotel and stepped inside, I’d almost reached for my wallet, sure I’d have to pay something just for breathing the  air. With towering marble columns and what I was sure was original framed artwork and sculptures, the place exuded old money. I’d stuck out like a sore thumb and caught the attention of the manager immediately. He’d breezed over, a tight ‘what the hell are you doing here’ smile plastered on his face. He was geared up and ready to kick me out before I tainted the place until I told him I was a nanny, there to interview with Alicia Whitmore. He obviously only heard the ‘help’ part and zoned out the rest because anyone that met the woman knew she didn’t do children.

She was just as stylish as she’d been when we met, wearing a charcoal gray short sleeve dress, a chunky silver locket necklace and black stilettos with metallic studs along the heel. She ran her fingers through her chin length hair, black and gray locks glittering.

“I told him I was interviewing for a service position.”

“Hmm,” she said with a scoff of thinly veiled disgust. “Aren’t you clever? And why the need for the cloak and dagger charade?”

“Because I care about your son and he cares about you. We need to find some way to get along.”

She gave me a final once over, clearly searching for some reason to turn me away. With a final tiny sigh, she stepped to the side, letting me in.

“Maybe you were still asleep when I stopped by before, but my son is no fan of mine,” she said crisply before shrugging a shoulder. “I’m used to it though. Being a Whitmore is very lonely business.”

If I hadn’t seen the hurt flash across her face when Jacob said I was all the family he needed I might have believed her–even though she was trying to make it seem like her poor relationship with her son was as monumental as a broken nail.

“I read the letter he wrote to you.”

She stopped, the vulnerability returning as her mouth worked but nothing came out.

The letter I read wasn’t something exchanged by two people who hated each other. It wasn’t even the words of a family teetering on the edge, caught between wars of the past and hopes for the future. They’d been in a good place and now they were back to square one.

She was quiet for a long moment before turning to the wet bar and pouring Evian into a glass. She took the longest sip in history before she put the glass down and pivoted to me. Her face was cleared of all emotion besides indifference.

“You don’t even have his last name and you’re already snooping?” She let out a bitter chuckle. “My son is going to get exactly what he deserves.”

She was trying hard to make me think that she didn’t care, but I refused to back down. “I know that your marriage was tough–”

“Tough?” She repeated the word like it was poison. “Tough is grinning and bearing it through a party filled with people you can’t stand. Tough is finding your dream dress and wearing it to a function where another woman had the exact same dream. Tough is finding a new stylist that you don’t have to micromanage. My marriage wasn’t tough. My marriage was hell.” She paused at the mirror beside the bar, but she wasn’t looking at her reflection. She was a hundred miles away, lost in a memory.