have some bad news. Someone’s out to get you,” Winthrope says.
My heart skips a few beats.
“Get me? What do you mean?” Ward demands.
“It has to be one of your competitors, I’m sure. It came in an unmarked package and without any hint who sent it. I can’t tell you who to sue, but I’d get an attorney and investigator going on a libel case right away.”
Well, crap. Apparently I was wrong. A storm is coming and the feral look on Ward’s face says he’s ready to barrel straight into the headwind.
“Can you be more specific, please? What was in this package?” Ward asks.
“The packet of info claims your engagement is a scam to con me into thinking you’ve grown up.” For a second, it’s dead silent until Winthrope continues. “Don’t worry. I didn’t give a second thought to that outrageous nonsense. I’ve seen you two together. You’d both have to be professional actors to bamboozle me. I saw the love in your eyes, and that fine young lady hangs on your every word.”
I’m doubled over with the sigh of relief hissing out of me.
Ward looks like he’s ready to find whodunit and skin them alive.
“Mr. Winthrope, thank you. I deeply appreciate you passing this along,” he says coldly.
“Certainly. I just wanted you to know. I’m probably not the only client the vultures are trying to poach. I can forward you the packet if it will help you get to the bottom of this. It’s simply diabolic that someone would use the transition going on in your firm right now to swipe clients. A changeover caused by a wonderful, talented woman’s health slipping, of all things. If you do find out who it is, tell me. I’ll have someone this unethical blacklisted. If they’ll do it to you today, there’s no telling who’ll wind up in front of the firing squad tomorrow.”
“Absolutely. Thank you again. Forwarding the info would be very helpful,” Ward says, his fist clenched so hard in front of him his knuckles are bone-white.
“Consider it done. I hope the next time we talk it’s under better circumstances. Mrs. Winthrope wants to know where Miss Holly registered for the wedding. Send me a message when you find out.”
“Of course. Thank you,” Ward says.
Winthrope cuts the call.
Then it happens.
Ward slams his jackhammer fist against his desk so ferociously I jump, pressing a hand to my drumming heart.
“Who...who do you think it could be?” I ask, cringing because I already have a good guess.
“The six-foot pile of crap I call dad. Who else?” he growls, before his face softens. “Sorry. I knew it was coming, but having it dropped on my head...”
“Are you sure, Ward?”
“Who else would it be?” He’s quiet for a minute. “Mother? She’s not this bloodthirsty.”
“If you know it’s your parents, why did you ask him to forward the information?”
“Evidence. Plus, I have to keep him thinking it’s from a competitor. Otherwise, he’ll run for the hills.”
“Calm down. We dodged the bullet. Let’s not forget that,” I say softly, taking a step toward him, but he shifts his chair, avoiding my touch.
“We’ve dodged nothing, Paige. Not yet. And it won’t end until I’ve shut this shit down. There’ll be other grenades, and if Winthrope is a dead end they’ll go to The Chicago Tea. The asshole won’t stop until he gets what he wants. That’s how my father is. He’s greedy, dirty, and never figured out how to think.”
He picks up his office phone and punches a direct line button.
“Nick, get your ass in here.” He hangs up.
Nick Brandt comes through the door a second later, his easygoing grin replaced with a scowl. “What’s your problem now?”
“Not what, who. And the answer is, our fuck of a dad,” Ward says.
“Jesus. What’s happened?” Nick asks, taking a chair.
I listen tensely while Ward fills him in on the call and the mystery character assassination packet.
My heart aches for Nick when he looks up, his face morose, loaded with decades of pain caused by these people.
“What are we going to do?” he asks.
I don’t hear Ward’s answer.
I’m too busy beginning to understand the dark side of becoming a Brandt.
A few hours later, Ward calls me into his office.
It’s the first time he’s spoken to me since the phone call ordeal earlier.
“You rang?” I push his office door open.
“I need the biggest black drip you can find. And if you can’t, six shots of espresso, please,” he says.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Friendly reminder, the coffee runs aren’t back on the table just