Rich Little Poor Girl: An Interracial Second Chance Romance Read online

  “My excuse is that I’m stuck here for eternity, and now I have a gambling problem,” Ben replies, “only it’s with other people’s money and I fucking hate to lose.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this, Ben. Fucking teachers’ retirements going up in smoke—”

  “Goddammit, Evan, that was six years ago! No one put a gun to your head.”

  “But no one stopped me! Why didn’t anyone stop me?”

  “Stop you? You fucking drank on that story for a year.”

  “I was trying to make it a win. But I couldn’t. No one told me I couldn’t escape it. No one told me the consequences.”

  “No one told you to grow a conscience midstream, Evan,” Ben replies, trying to echo his father. “No one told you the consequences, because no one around here knows what they are— not the ones you’re talking about.”

  “It’s gotten worse if you can even imagine that. Remember what they taught us at Princeton, about subprime mortgages and we practically shit our pants? You should go down to our old offices, Ben. The analysts, fucking walking around calling the clients ‘muppets.’ While they’re on the floor! The fuckin’ hairless balls these kids have!”

  “What’s gotten into you?” Ben wonders.

  “Nothing. Reality’s gotten into me. Being able to go home and look into the eyes of my son, and tell him that his dad hasn’t spent his life weaseling money out of good people. That’s what’s gotten into me.”

  Ben feels a strange twinge in his gut at his words.

  “How is young Chester?”

  “I wouldn’t know. His mom won’t let me see him. Says I ruined their lives when I sent the paper that story.”

  Ben sits stewing, thinking of what he should do. They have at least a month of bad press in front of them, and it doesn’t matter who’s been running the company for the last 30 years, Ben is in charge of it now. He can’t throw his dad under the bus, he has to take the heat.

  Ben couldn’t have picked a worse time to take over, it seems. He knows if his dad were still in charge, he’d have to make an example of Evan. He couldn’t have the Dvorak Group leaking like a sieve. He couldn’t just let him walk.

  But his dad is a cunt, in the immutable words of his old friend.

  “Look. I’ll release a statement saying that we’ve terminated your employment, and offered you a fair severance package— along with a non-disclosure that you will agree to sign. No more singing, Mariah.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dvorak.”

  “I can’t give you your stock. Sorry, Evan. It’s just not gonna happen.”

  Evan sat stonefaced before he replied, “Then you’ll see me in court.”

  “And I’ll agree to not grind you into a fine powder when you do— but only under the condition that you use that settlement money to reimburse those teachers.”

  Evan sighed and hung his head, knowing that he would never see that stock.

  But Ben was offering him redemption, which might actually be better.

  “How?” Evan wonders aloud. “Even if I win back every year’s worth, I’ll be lucky to get a fraction of what we owe them.”

  “What you owe them. And if you’re looking to make some money fast, I may know a few investors…”

  “Don’t try and sell me, you bastard. I’ll go with DG, but only if you handle it personally.”

  “Does it look like I’m still market making?” Ben grins.

  “You want my business or not, asshole?” Evan ribs him. Ben chuckles.

  “Then we have a deal?” Ben extends an arm across the large desk.

  Evan extends his own arm after a few moments and the two shook hands. “Looks that way,” Evan says.

  “Excellent. You’re fired.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll give Lisa the details. Meanwhile, clean out your shit.”

  “I’ve never been happier in my life, Ben. You should try it,” says Evan, getting up from his chair.

  “Not an option for me, unfortunately,” Ben replies, resigned. “Remember that handicap I mentioned?”

  “It’s all just an illusion, Ben. Contracts, ‘lockup’ stock. Family names. They trained us to be slaves, trained us that the only way out was ‘up,’ but it never was. Sure, it was more money, but it’s just more slavery. They want us to think like slaves, but we’re not slaves, Ben. None of us are. Not yet.”

  * * *

  Ben takes a cab ride to his apartment in the city after another long day of work. Still ruminating over his and Evan’s conversation.

  It’s all just an illusion, he said.

  Ben can’t begin to understand what he could’ve possibly meant by that. Or why he thought such a notion would be helpful to a man like Ben, who did not have the luxury of walking away from his own family. His older brother Grant had, but not without it practically killing him. He’d been the golden child, but it didn’t matter to Grant. The more he was esteemed, the more he despised dad for it. After his brother’s glaringly bad example, Ben’s bar became exceptionally low, so he supposed he could thank him for that. Though it has the annoying effect of turning Ben’s accomplishments into a benchmark for how much more Grant could’ve done in the same position.

  The cramps in his legs have become annoying, but not unbearable. Not even comparable. Eventually, he will have to break the promise to himself and have yet another surgery, which would bring the total to eight. His resolve is loosening, but he would still like to see how long he can go without breaking a single fucking promise.

  He opens his apartment door, hangs up his keys, and leaves whatever isn’t attached to him on the ground. When he gets to his bedroom his fiancée is standing there stark naked, her long black hair and her flawless, gold-kissed skin on display like an exclusive piece of art.

  “Esmee?”

  Her big black eyes are like saucers, searching his face for signs of elation.

  “Three weeks in the Serenghetti, and I still have my key. Are you proud of me?”

  Ben knows he’s expected to have some over the top reaction, but he can’t muster it. He settles on perplexity and hopes it’s enough.

  “I thought you were in Israel until next month?”

  “Nope. I’m here for the next month.”

  “You’re here,” he states the obvious.

  “I’m here,” she smiles.

  For the briefest of moments, he realizes he hadn’t missed her. The thought gives him alarm so he removes all his clothes and puts it out of his mind.

  The next morning he rolls over in bed, Esmee still in a sleep coma beside him as she will be likely until the afternoon. He looks at her sleeping face and feels better. The smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks reminds him that he only requires certain things as a man. And missing his fiancée when she was gone wasn’t one of them. In fact, it might be an advantage.

  He’d been in love once. If being “in love” meant missing someone when they were gone. And feeling their absence just as much as you could feel their presence. If he felt that with Esmee, their relationship would be unbearable, simply unsustainable. How is lack of crippling attachment a bad thing?

  The way he’s now seeing it, it’s one less source of strain on the relationship, since they see each other so little. She has no intentions of slowing or settling down, which works just fine for him. He likes it about her that she’s so ambitious and focused. She’s back in town for only a week or two, and they will likely see each other even less than usual, as it turns out that fashion models are quite busy. Naturally, as the unofficial president of the Dvorak Group, so is he.

  Today, however, he is even more busy, since his father Solomon’s worsening condition now requires weekly meetings.

  It doesn’t, actually, if you ask him. But his older sister Valerie has taken over his care, and now it does.

  After work, Ben makes the short trek to the lavish penthouse, once their family’s home away from home while his father worked in the city (and his occasional whore haven they later foun
d out). He greets his father’s longtime maid Rosa and pours himself a cup of tea from the sterling silver set he was never allowed to touch growing up. One of many indulgences Ben allowed himself once the iron grip of his father’s hand was finally vanquished.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Ben says once Val makes her way downstairs.

  “Grant’s not going to make it,” she sighs.

  “Surprise.”

  “He says he can’t find a place with good Wi-Fi.”

  “Even walking to the other side of his room and opening his laptop has become too much of a chore.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him. Dad practically ground him down to powder trying to make him into a carbon copy. We’re lucky he hasn’t staged dad’s death. Besides, he’s trying to really do that vow of silence thing.”

  As soon as Grant was old enough, he left the city to become a musician and later became a monk. Ben didn’t even know they still made monks. By the time Ben was old enough to decide to try his hand at the family business, his father’s response was a tepid, “fine.” Val was probably his second choice, but she went into politics, working to regulate the very investment banking firms that’d been run by their father’s golfing buddies. The whole thing makes Ben wish he’d encouraged Val to play with dolls more.

  “I tried to get more information out of his doctors. Apparently, Daddy hired lawyers, drew up some legalese to keep his prognosis confidential, even to himself. Unfortunately, without getting lawyers involved, they’re not allowed to give us their professional opinion.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Almost like he knows doctors are not to be trusted and will say anything to keep you bedridden and filling prescriptions.”

  “Now, now Ben. Not all doctors, you know that.”

  “Actually I don’t. But that’s really fucking interesting. That means he believed us, finally.”

  “Either that, or simply didn’t want to take the chance with his own health. Grandpa apparently died the same way, and it wasn’t pretty. Which reminds me, Ben, you should probably get tested to see if you have the same genetic markers.”

  “No thanks,” Ben scoffs. “I think I’m more like the old man on that front.”

  “No one knows how much time he has left, but he certainly doesn’t have enough time to wait for legal.”

  “He’ll be dead by the time we get the records unsealed. Which would just reveal the same guessing game we’re playing, more than likely. Everyone can see that. The old man knows— knew— what he was doing.”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of research. The symptoms seem to be around the ‘6 month’ mark. But sometimes those symptoms go on for awhile. It’s oddly unpredictable.”

  Ben resents his father for developing Alzheimer’s, one of the most all-consuming diseases that didn’t even have the courtesy to leave its victims bedridden. His sister Valerie has all but dedicated herself to his care.

  She spends every other day at the penthouse, playing nurse the same way she’d done with Ben all through his childhood. Her dedication seems genuine, a blessing that Benjamin knows his father has done nothing to deserve. Val is single-handedly keeping the vultures away from the shrewd businessman that spent his life amassing wealth and burning his bridges.

  When Val found out their dad was essentially dying a slow, nihilistic death, she decided not to run for re-election, much to the dismay of her supporters in her district. Her reason for resigning remains a professional mystery hidden behind the industry stonewall that was “personal reasons.”

  “So Dad had a moment of clarity today,” Val remembers.

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “It was longer than five minutes.”

  “Then I really don’t want to know.”

  “He seems to be out of the volatile anger phase. I think he understands what’s happening to him.”

  “You’ve turned sentimental on me, Val. There’s no way that’s true. It’s much more likely that we will all have to live with the consequences of his miserable life while he withers away in blissful ignorance.”

  “You do realize I’ve known you since birth, Benjamin? You can’t fool me.”

  “I don’t want to see him.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know,” Val nods her head like an annoying bird of paradise, her dull auburn hair in a long bob. Ben sighs as he changes the subject.

  “Did you talk to the board?”

  “I’m not going to talk to the board without you, you know that. Plus, Grant is going to stonewall. Dad would have to get up out of his rocker and recite the bylaws for him to agree to hand over his seats.”

  “You ever seen such a greedy monk in your life?”

  “Can’t say that I’ve ever seen a monk. Anyway, did you look at the financials yet?”

  “For the quarter?”

  “For the week. There was a check,” she says with raised eyebrows. The eyebrows come back down and she stops as if her statement is meant to be revelatory.

  “Well. That’s quite the mystery, Nancy Drew.”

  “Be nice, or I won’t tell you who it was from.”

  Now it’s Ben’s turn to raise a Dvorak’s eyebrow.

  “Alright,” he answers tentatively.

  “Cynthia.”

  Ben sits stoically as if the name didn’t ring a hundred bells.

  “Gordon?” he confirms, as if there’s more than one Cynthia.

  “Yes, genius, Cynthia Gordon.”

  Ben had to admit it was odd. But he could think of plenty of explanations.

  Cynthia popped back up on his radar suddenly around five years ago as head of the design firm Inidigo Properties. From there she went from a blip on his radar to an inescapable presence around town. Her name went from a distant, private connotation to an enigmatic brand on everyone’s lips. He never knew she could design homes or even wanted to, but he wasn’t surprised. She tended to work hard, but she also had a creative streak. A tendency to stand out, take risks. Her handiwork is sprouting up all around town, and it always puts a smile on his face. Even though he was technically supposed to hate her for what she did. Whatever that was.

  Of course, it could all be another one of her alleged “scams.” Still. When he thinks about their relationship which is now a thousand years old and fossilized in romance, the betrayal is all but forgotten. He was young, she was even younger. She made a bad decision, and it looks as though she’s learned from it. She’s done more than learn from it. She’s excelled.

  He is happy for her. He has no ill will towards her.

  “Maybe she’s done some work for the old man. Maybe he reached out years later, like the twisted bastard that he is, and commissioned her. Quietly. And… she… needed to pay him for… going over budget or… something,” Ben was reaching. Okay, so maybe “plenty” explanations was a stretch.

  “Not likely. See any Cynthia Gordon signatures around here? At the Scarsdale house? And unless this check is six to nine months late, there’s no way they’ve been in correspondence. She doesn’t even know that he doesn’t have the capacity to cash it himself.”

  “No one does. Outside of us. What’s your point?”

  Val sighs. She doesn’t know the reaction she’s expecting, but the fact that he’s determined to make it out to be nothing is a little… odd.

  “Would you like to know the amount?”

  “Alright, Columbo, out with it.”

  “$139,000.”

  That gets his attention.

  “Did it say what for?”

  “I’m so glad you asked because in the memo line was conspicuously written ‘extortion + interest.’”

  Ben is quiet, searching his mind, but there is no information there that can help him.

  “Let me see it.”

  Val opens up her laptop and shows her brother the electronic copy of the check. The image unexpectedly jolts his heart.

  “Her handwriting, is it not?”

  “Honestly, I don’
t know. I assume so,” Ben replies, studying the loops in her signature, in the signing of their father’s name, the last name he’d nearly given her.

  “You never saw her write anything down, Benjamin?”

  “First time I’m ever seeing it,” he says, stifling a smile. And yet, he intrinsically recognizes it.

  There in the amount box is a total of $139,310.18

  “An awfully specific amount of money, wouldn’t you say?” Val says.

  “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m saying the story’s true. She went to dad for money, blackmailed him or something. Had some dirt on you, or him. He must’ve given it to her because now she’s a big-time designer.”

  Ben can feel a blind rage coming up from the dark pit of his insides, but for some reason, by the time it can get to his heart it evaporates.

  It isn’t just that he doesn’t want to believe it, it truly doesn’t make sense to him.

  He knows something happened. If she was truly a criminal she would lay low and stay that way. Change her name. Not flaunt herself around town and avoid him like the plague. Some insidious cloud of guilt and shame and accusations made them both insist on staying away. Even when her office is in Tribeca, and his office is in the same place it always was.

  But he cannot concede the idea that she never cared. That’s impossible.

  “She’s only been at this design thing five years, Val, not ten. And she never mentioned anything about real estate or design. She was going to culinary school.”

  “Is that what she told you before or after you got undressed?”

  “Why the hell would she lie about something like that?”

  “I don’t know, Ben. What else would she have to say to get close to us and take down the company?”

  “Val, I’d have to seriously question your intelligence if you actually believe that nonsense story. As if she could even do that.”

  “If you would’ve gone through with asking her to marry you, she could’ve taken us all down.”

  “Not really. Besides, the only person I told about that was you. And also, why would she give the money back?”