Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
I flag it down.
“Riverside, please. More London Place.” I glance down at the address on the letterhead peeking out from my purse as I climb into the back seat. The seat belt clicks, and the cab merges with the traffic.
I’m going to Raif’s lawyer. He’ll know where Daisy’s dad lives.
I’d gotten the address from my prenup, which I’d kept in the safe of my office. In the early days, I was obviously too suspicious to leave it at Raif’s house. I also didn’t want anyone else reading it, so the safe seemed the best option.
I glance out at the later afternoon traffic and send a hope heavenward that this pans out well. It’s not like Daisy’s school is likely to have parents who are firemen or vets or marine biologists; anything that might sound exciting to a seven-year-old. It’ll be investment bankers, portfolio analysts, and CEOs. In other words, a yawn-fest. Who knows, maybe Daisy’s dad will liven things up. I’m pretty sure Raif said her dad was a DJ. I don’t suppose he needs to be a cool one. Whether he sells out gigs at Hï Ibiza, hotel weddings, or bar mitzvahs, I’m sure it’s better than being bored to tears by mutual funds, data blah, and macro yawns.
I put the astronomical fare on my credit card and climb out of the cab in swanky Riverside—glass and steel as far as the eye can see. Fancy office blocks, residential towers, and fancy eateries, the taller of these buildings blocking out the late afternoon sun intermittently.
I check the address, scoot through the revolving door, and head to the lift and the fourth floor, which offers me a view of Tower Bridge as the receptionist tracks Raif’s lawyer down. I figure turning up out of the blue might make the lawyer curious and more amenable to seeing me.
“Lavender. What a pleasant surprise.”
Raif’s lawyer appears in front of me, his hands outstretched as though expecting me to drop a gift into them. Red-brown hair and a sharp suit, his strikes me as a very familiar form of address for a man I’ve said two words total to. But I suppose he was at my wedding. Maybe that makes him feel like he knows me. Or maybe he and Raif are friendly. They’re around the same age.
“Mr. Tierney, hi. I’m sorry for turning up without an appointment, but I wondered if you might have a few minutes to spare.” My fingers tighten on my purse, my gaze sliding to the receptionist. “It’s quite a delicate matter.”
“Of course,” he says, already turning. “Come right this way. Hold my calls, Victoria,” he instructs, almost as an afterthought.
I follow his tall form through a stylish open-plan office that seems to take up almost the entire floor. It’s still a hive of activity at almost five o’clock, women in stylishly cut dresses and pantsuits and men in ties and shirtsleeves still looking sharp for the time of day.
“We’re through here,” he says, swinging open an oversized door that leads to a swanky corner office, the windows offering a view over the River Thames. “Can I get you a drink,” he asks, heading for his desk and swiping up a remote.
“No, thank you.” I take a seat on an uncomfortable-looking leather sofa. Story checks out, I think as my bum practically bounces from the taut fawn-colored skin covering the seat.
“You’re sure? It’s five o’clock,” he adds in what I think is meant to be a tempting tone.
“No, but thanks. Things to do, people to see. You know how it is.”
“That I do.” He turns away as a wooden wall panel glides open, revealing a bar, complete with glistening crystalware and top-shelf liquors. “That’s more or less what I do for a living,” he says as ice chinks and liquid is poured. “Do people.” As he turns, he puts me in the mind of a cartoon animal, though I’m not sure which.
The Lion King hyenas, maybe.
“Cool,” I reply, wondering why he would say that.
“I must say, I’m surprised to see you here so soon.”
“Soon? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
His lips curl, though his eyes remain on the glass in his hand. He pushes off from the bar, crossing the room to sit on the leather chair kitty-corner to the sofa.
He sips at his drink, almost absorbed in it, before he sets the glass down on the low coffee table. “The money, I suppose. So soon after the money.”
“I’m not here about money,” I begin. Then I stop. Rewind. “What money are we talking about?”
“Your prenup. It was released to your account this afternoon.”
I shake my head as though my ears are waterlogged. “But…”
“Didn’t Raif tell you?”
“Well, no. Obviously.” I begin to search in my purse for my phone.
“That’s a shame, but I have to say it isn’t a surprise. You’re not the first woman he’s dropped on a whim.”