Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
She giggles and raises her glass at me. “Yes, okay, what account do I take the bail money out of?”
“You’ll have to rob a bank.”
“Roger that.”
I storm out of the restaurant on a mission. Tristan Miles is looking for a fight, and he just found one.
Nobody calls my son stupid and gets away with it.
I march up to the reception desk in the Miles Media building.
“Hello, may I help you?” The young girl smiles.
“I’d like to see Tristan Miles, please.”
“Did you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry; that will be impossible.”
“You tell him Claire Anderson is here to see him.”
“I’m sorry—” she continues.
“Tell him,” I interrupt her. “I’m not leaving until I see him.”
She and the other receptionist exchange glances, and she dials a number. “Hi, Sammia. I have a Claire Anderson to see Tristan Miles in reception.”
She listens and then holds the phone down. “She’s just checking.”
I can hear my pulse as it pumps boiling blood around my body.
Boom . . . boom . . . boom.
“Okay, thank you.” She types something and hands over a security card on a lanyard. “You can go up. Hector will accompany you.”
“I can find it myself,” I snap.
“Nobody goes to the top floor without a security guard.”
He’s going to need one. “Fine.”
She waves over a security guard, and he comes over. “Can you please escort Mrs. Anderson to see Tristan Miles, please?”
“Sure thing.” He smiles at me. “This way, please.” He gestures to the elevator, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from speaking. I’m so mad that I can’t put two words together.
I glare straight ahead at the doors as I go over in my head what I’m going to say.
The doors open, and I storm out. My step falters as I see the floor.
What the fuck?
Expansive views all over New York. White marble. Contemporary luxury at its finest. Of course his office looks like this . . . it only boils my blood more.
The pretty receptionist smiles. “Hello, I’m Sammia. You’re here to see Tristan?”
“Yes, please.” I remember my manners and force a smile. “Hello, I’m Claire Anderson.”
“Are you . . .” Her voice trails off.
“Yes, I’m Fletcher’s mother.”
I see the exact moment that she realizes why I’m here—her eyes widen. “Oh, I see.” She stands and puts her hand out. “This way, please.”
We turn left and go down a wide corridor. I can see the sprawling New York skyline at the end, and offices are all to the left. “His office is at the end,” she says.
I keep following her, and we get to a large room, another reception area, and I see Fletcher sitting at a desk. Two girls are at desks beside him: one looks younger.
Fletcher’s face falls when he sees me. “Mom, what are you doing here?” he stammers in a panic.
“Just visiting Tristan.” I fake a smile. “Thanks, Sammia.” I barge open Tristan’s door and close it behind me.
I find him sitting at his desk. He looks up and runs his tongue over his bottom lip and sits back in his chair, as if amused.
Arrogance personified.
“Claire Anderson.” He smiles.
I narrow my eyes.
“And to what do I owe this pleasure?” he says, pen in hand.
“Oh, I think you know,” I sneer.
He raises an eyebrow. “No. Actually, I don’t.”
“What the hell are you doing to Fletcher?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I bark, “how dare you call him stupid? How dare you scream at him in front of other staff? Or at all, for that matter.”
He tilts his chin to the sky defiantly. “Did he run to Mommy, did he?”
“Tristan,” I whisper angrily. “I understand that you met in terrible circumstances, but it’s clearly obvious that you only hired him to make a fool of him. And I won’t have it.”
He narrows his eyes and sits back in his chair. “Is that what you think?”
“That’s what I know.”
He stands and comes around in front of me. “I’ll tell you what I’m doing with Fletcher Anderson. I’m teaching him work ethic. He’s lazy and needs discipline.”
“You are not training him; you are belittling him,” I fire back.
“I’m teaching him to have some respect,” he replies calmly. “Something that he quite obviously hasn’t learned at home.”
“Why on earth would he respect a jerk like you?” I whisper angrily.
“Because I’m his boss, Claire, and I am not putting up with his excuses,” he replies.
“By calling him stupid,” I snap.
“I did not call him stupid. I told him to stop acting stupid. There’s a big difference. He’s intelligent, Claire, a lot more than you give him credit for. He doesn’t have anger issues; he has a fucking attitude issue, and I’m getting rid of it.”
“By making a fool of him?” I gasp.
“By making him learn from his mistakes. If he is not punished as he does them, he will keep doing it. You don’t learn a lesson unless it makes you uncomfortable.”