The Pretend Boyfriend 2 (The Pretend Boyfriend #2)(20)
Author: Artemis Hunt

Sam storms out of Rutgard’s office. Her vision blurs. I’m not going to cry in front of that bastard, she promises herself. But oh, oh, oh, it’s so unfair. But whoever said life was fair? They certainly weren’t fair to Brian, and he’s a golden boy – handsome, unattainable, rich and successful. What more would the fates have in store for the likes of her, Average Jane?

A text message alights upon her phone with the sound of a falling drop of water. She looks at the display. It’s the PI, reminding her of their rendezvous.

Now how the hell is she going to pay for that and her apartment too?

19

The elevator doors slide open. Brian feels like a condemned man as he steps out onto the familiar corridor. Up here in the top floor of the skyscraper, there is barely a soul walking around. The walls are brocade, and bronzed Buddhas from Indonesia grace pedestals of varying heights.

His uncle is an antique collector. Personally, Brian can never stomach antiques.

Jefferson Morton’s office is behind two paneled oak doors. Hubert, his bespectacled British PA, sits behind a desk. He looks up as Brian approaches.

“Brian,” he says appreciatively. Hubert is g*y and he always had an eye for pretty men. Having a g*y PA is just one of Jefferson’s attempts to promote corporate diversity.

“Hubert.”

Brian is always polite to Hubert, though the man’s penetrating gaze disarms him. Hubert always undresses him mentally – running his eyes up and down Brian’s tall frame. Not that Brian is a homophobe. Far from it – but such frank sexual interest from another man is always a little disconcerting.

“Your uncle is expecting you.”

“That’s what the phone call is to prime him for.”

“Step right in.”

Brian pushes the doors open. His uncle’s office is designed to wow, to intimidate. Brian has never been easily intimidated. But today is different. Today is . . . well, today going to be humbling.

Jefferson Morton is a huge man. His size has not been diminished by his fight against cancer. Now fully cured, he is larger than before. His shock of black hair – dyed – belies his true age. As the eldest son and patriarch of the family, he is almost seventy. He has single-handedly launched the Morton family into prominence, bringing them all up from the lower middle class immigrants they once were to become one of the wealthiest families in Chicago. The fact that most of his siblings and the children of his siblings are disappointing does not prohibit him from helping them.

To an extent.

He does not seem to want to forget his considerable family, however. The office is decorated with photos. Brian’s gaze slides over a medium-sized photo on a shelf behind his uncle’s chair. His father and mother pose with him as a five-year-old child in a studio shot. They appear happy. But of course, that was before his father started drinking and gambling heavily.

Jefferson’s eyes are a vivid blue. “Sit down, Brian.”

Brian pulls a chair and sits.

“And what do I owe this unexpected visit?” his uncle says.

Brian slides a document over his uncle’s handsome oak table, as wide as any found in a boardroom.

He pulls in a deep breath.

“I’ve come to put in my resignation as President and CEO of Vanguard.”

His uncle’s gaze does not waver. “I was expecting it. You saved me the trouble of asking you to step down.”

Brian shrugs. “Our clients were threatening to leave. The publicity is proving too hot for them to handle. I had no choice. It was the right thing to do.”

Especially for a company he has helped build from scratch. He loves it too much to allow the hemorrhage. Especially one caused by him. So he has to amputate himself from the body before he can cause it irreparable harm.

Vanguard is still his. But he would no longer pilot it – steer its daily planning and cycle. He would no longer come to his own office every day and hold strategic brainstorming meetings. Advertising is his pulse and lifeblood, and now he has to step away from doing what he loves best.

It hurts.

It hurts so much that it is a physical ache in his chest. But he would never tell his uncle this, of course.

“Yes, it is the right thing to do. I’m glad you came to the same conclusion, Brian. I was afraid that your youth and pride prohibited you from thinking straight. You were always brilliant. But you’ve lacked the discipline required in true leadership. When I gave you the reins of Vanguard, I’ve always been certain that you would muck it up somehow with your constant carousing.”

“What I do outside of Vanguard is none of anyone’s business.”

“Unless the two worlds merge.”

Brian knows it’s true. He doesn’t say anything.

Now there’s that little thing about money. No one is going to hire him right away. At least, not unless this thing is cleared up. If it ever clears up. Otherwise, he is looking at a prison sentence. His money is almost entirely tied up in company stocks and in trust. Money he can’t touch easily.

Whatever he has earned from Vanguard, he has plowed back into the business. And in decorating his penthouse with expensive Italian furniture. And in buying the entire Armani spring collection. He has expensive tastes and he looks the part, dresses the part.

Now he’s sorry he hasn’t tried to save more of it. But he never reckoned on being poor. Not even for a day. He’s not exactly poor now either. Just downgraded.

“What are you going to do now?” his uncle asks.

“I don’t know. Clear my name. And then I’ll think of something.”

He does not ask for money or even any help, and his uncle does not offer. Brian wasn’t expecting him to. He knows this is something he has to go through alone to prove something to himself. And to his uncle.

His uncle nods. There’s a glimmer of respect in his eyes. Respect Brian doesn’t often see.

“Good luck in clearing your name, Brian. It’s going to be an uphill task, from what I read about your case.”

“I know.”

His uncle stands up and proffers his hand for Brian to shake. Brian takes it.

When he steps out of his uncle’s office, he feels as if a load has been taken off his shoulders.

20

“Interesting,” Sam says as she peruses the documents the private investigator has given her. “So her real name is Adele Jankovic. Why did she change it?”

“No reason stated.”

“She changed it last year, along with her apartment, her job.” Her life, Sam thinks.

“She even had a visit to a plastic surgeon around that time.”