The Punk and the Plaything (When Rivals Play #3) - B.B. Reid Page 0,134

the conversation away to safer waters while others…

I took a deep breath, fighting the rising bile.

The men without sons had asked if I was pure. The ones with sons expressed interest in the hopes of forcing them to settle down. Countless had wanted to know if I was fertile.

And my father had answered them all with gusto.

Tears ran down my face when I came across the email from Mr. Portland:

I have it on good authority that your daughter is no longer spoken for. I’m hoping it’s not too late to make an offer. This family has suffered enough shame thanks to my daughter. I will not allow my faggot son to embarrass me further.

I quickly closed out the email, unable to stand anymore.

Oh, Jason.

I waited for shock over the news that he was gay to come, but now that I had confirmation, I realized I’d always known. I used to think he’d been a sore loser whenever he’d storm away after losing a wrestling match with Ever or Vaughn, but one person hiding a crush definitely recognized another.

And just as he was going through a confusing time in life, his sister—his twin—had killed herself, and he believed one of his best friends to be responsible.

Two wrongs never made a right, but I understood now more than ever why he was being a giant asshole and hoped that it wasn’t too late for forgiveness. We might not ever be able to trust each other again, but maybe we could all come to more than just a reluctant truce.

None of us are innocent.

A ping drew my attention back to the computer screen. In the right-hand corner was a notification for an incoming email to my father’s business account. Without a second thought, I opened it and saw that the head of Human Resources at MontGlobal had sent it. Apparently, an analyst was suing the company for wrongful termination after reporting “questionable accounting practices” to both my father and the CFO.

I searched the analyst’s name in my father’s inbox and saw ten different message threads dating back six months. The analyst had been trying to understand the reasons behind all the unapproved bonuses, loans, and extravagant company spending. For example, why had MontGlobal footed the bill for my father’s summer home in the Hamptons? The same one my father had recently sold.

There was also mention of angry investors requesting a detailed account of how exactly their money for all my father’s “groundbreaking” ventures was spent. My father had blown off every one of the analyst’s concerns and had even mentioned providing him a hefty bonus to reward him for his thorough attention to detail.

I couldn’t claim to be well-versed in corporate lingo, but that sounded an awful lot like a bribe.

One that the fired analyst obviously hadn’t taken.

Charles Dennis, MontGlobal’s Chief Financial Officer, had been cc’d in every email, so I searched his name in the inbox. Surely, he noticed.

I frowned as I opened email after email.

Not one of their conversations mentioned the analyst’s concerns.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds before my disbelief turned to suspicion. Switching back to my father’s personal email account, I searched for Charles Dennis but found nothing in the inbox. Maybe he’d deleted them?

Checking the archived folder, my eyes bulged with disbelief.

Jackpot!

The two men had been arguing back and forth for weeks. I couldn’t read each thread fast enough.

For years, my father had been stealing money from his own company, namely investors, and he and Charles were in on it together. It seemed as if my father selling off everything had been his attempt to put the cookies back in the jar before anyone noticed. Charles, dear that he was, had been trying to get my father to understand why the idea was ludicrous. Especially when there was a trail of crumbs my father had left leading right to them. Apparently, my father got greedy and gone rogue, and now both men were fucked.

Doing a happy dance in my father’s chair, I printed off the emails, including the ones my father had been sending to his friends in an attempt to sell my wares. I had no idea whose hands I needed to put this evidence in, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to start with the SEC.

Just in case, I forwarded every one of the private emails exchanged between my father and Charles to every member of MontGlobal’s board, along with the investors who’d been swindled. I’m sure they’d know exactly what to do.