The thing about loving a powerful man is knowing when to stand back and let him take the reins.
Today I’m doing just that.
“What is he doing out there?” Patrick frowns.
I dip my head to peer out the window and onto the front porch to see Tristan pacing, hands on hips, muttering to himself. He’s been up since five o’clock, dressed in his suit, and ready for battle.
Mrs. Henderson is going down . . . and to be honest I feel like calling ahead and warning her.
She needs to run.
It was his first official night here with me last night, and he didn’t even come to bed until well after I was asleep, and he was up before I woke this morning. I missed the entire thing.
He stayed up and went through all of Harrison’s past assignments and tests. He interviewed Harrison in great detail about the goings-on in class and when and why he has been sent out or suspended. I know that Harrison is a handful, and I’ve been sympathetic to the teachers about his behavior up until this point. But Tristan has assured me that there is more to this story than I realize. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Henderson is going to regret giving Harry such a low grade.
He sticks his head in the front door. “Are you ready?” he calls.
He raises his eyebrows impatiently. “What?”
“You’re not going to be passive aggressive to Mrs. Henderson, are you?”
He clenches his jaw. “Nope.” He gestures toward the car impatiently, and the boys walk past him into the front yard. “I’m going to be aggressive aggressive.”
I roll my eyes. “Can you not?”
“Claire.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I will not for one fucking minute have him treated in this manner, and if you are asking me to bite my tongue . . . it’s best you don’t come.”
“Christ Almighty,” I mutter under my breath. “Can you just be calm, please?” I ask. “You’re stressing me out.”
“I’m stressing you out?” He points to his chest incredulously. “Don’t come, Claire. Sit in the car. Because I am telling you right now: I’m not about to take shit from this fucking teacher.”
Oh jeez. I brush past him and get into the car. It’s big and black and has a new-car smell. Patrick and Harry bounce in the back. They love it and made Tristan drive them around the block ten times last night.
I watch Tristan leave the house and lock the door. He takes a deep breath, drops his shoulders, and undoes his suit jacket with one hand as he walks toward the car.
I smile as I watch him . . . Tristan Miles is here, the takeover king. The take-no-shit, get-what-he-wants man whom I used to hate is here batting . . . for us. Somehow, he has taken my naughty little boy under his wing.
I don’t think I’ve ever loved him like I do right now.
He gets in and slams the door. “Harrison, you will be coming to the meeting with us, please.”
Harry’s eyes widen in horror. “But—”
“No buts. You need to learn how to defend yourself.”
Oh jeez. I slide down in the seat in dread. I don’t even want to come to this meeting myself . . . maybe I can sit in the car?
Ten minutes later we pull up at the school, and Tristan parks the car. We walk into the office. The receptionist does a double take as she sees him. Her eyes flick to me and then back to him, as if questioning what he’s doing here with us.
She’s a real bitch, this one, and I’ve had run-ins with her before.
“Can I help you?” she asks flatly.
“Hello, I’m Tristan Miles. I would like a meeting with Mrs. Henderson, the principal, the vice-principal, and someone from the parent-teacher association, please.”
Her eyes flick to me, and I swallow the lump in my throat.
“When for?”
“Now.” He stares at her deadpan, and I really wish the earth would swallow me up.
“What is this in regard to?” she asks.
“Harrison Anderson.”
“About?”
Tristan glares at her. “Can you please just do your allocated job and book the appointment? This is a private matter.”
Harrison looks up at Tristan and gives him a hopeful smile, and Tristan takes his hand.
I wither . . . oh crap.
Aggressive aggressive, here we go.
She glares at him and then twists her lips in annoyance. “That won’t be possible. You need to book a meeting at least two weeks in advance.”
“All right.” Tristan fakes a smile. “I would like you to get the board of education on the phone for me immediately.”
Her eyes widen. “What for?”
“I would like to make a formal complaint to them. It is your duty to contact them on my behalf in the instance of a crisis, is it not?”
She stares at him, shocked, and I drop my head to hide my smile.
He’s such an arrogant ass.
He takes a seat in the waiting area, crosses his legs, and sits back, as if he owns the place.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m not leaving until I have that meeting or speak to the education board.” He shrugs casually. “The choice is yours.” He taps the chair beside him, and Harrison sits down.
“Just a minute,” she says. She disappears into the principal’s office. I know where it is—I’ve been there many times before.
I take a seat beside them, and I can’t look at him—or I’ll burst out laughing.
She reappears a moment later. “Mrs. Smithers, the principal, has had an opening. She can see you now. Mrs. Henderson is in class, so she won’t be attending.”
“Make that call. The meeting doesn’t go ahead without her,” he says as he lifts his chin defiantly.
She stares at him for a moment, as if doing an internal risk assessment.
He glares at her with a silent “don’t fuck with me” attitude.
“Just a minute.” She scurries back into the principal’s office.
“No talking in here,” Tristan whispers to Harry.
Harry nods. “Okay.”
She reappears a moment later. “This way, please.” She shows us into the office. Mrs. Smithers and the vice-principal are seated at the desk.
“Hello.” He smiles calmly. “My name is Tristan Miles, and this is Claire Anderson, my partner, and I’m sure you know Harrison.” He shakes their hands.
Their eyes flick to each other. “Take a seat, please.”
Tristan turns toward the rude receptionist. “You will need to stay and take minutes, please.”
Her mouth falls open. “What?”
“I want this meeting documented. Who will take notes,” he replies as he looks among them, “if not you?”
I bite my lip to hide my smile. Oh, he’s something else.
Mrs. Smithers nods. “Yes, okay. Sheridan, take the minutes, please.” She passes her a notepad and pencil.
Mrs. Henderson rushes into the room all flustered. “I’m here.” She falls into a seat and glances over at Harrison.
Mrs. Smithers links her fingers together on the desk. “How can I help you, Mr. Miles?”
“I would like to discuss the education of Harrison and, in particular, the grading system of his work.” He pulls the assignment from the inside pocket of his jacket. “He got a thirty on this. Please explain to me why.”
Mrs. Henderson shrugs. “It wasn’t any good.”
Tristan’s eyes flicker with anger. “In whose opinion?”
“Mine, and as his teacher, what I say goes.”
Tristan sits back, angered, and I wince . . . jeez. Here we go. “Is that so?” He smirks. “I would like this assignment independently graded.”
“No, that’s not possible, and why would you want to do that?”
“Because Harrison Anderson is being victimized by you because you have a personality clash with him.”
“Oh please,” Mrs. Henderson huffs. “I try and teach him, but there is nothing in his head.”
The principal lets out an audible gasp.
Tristan smiles. “And there it is.” He turns to the receptionist. “Did you get that?”
The receptionist nods nervously.
“You’ve just signed your termination letter, Mrs. Henderson.” He smiles sweetly.
She glares at Harry.
“I’ve personally checked this assignment, and it is not a thirty—perhaps an eighty at worst. You grade him low on every test on some personal power trip.”
“Oh, that is rubbish,” she scoffs.
Tristan pulls out a folder from his briefcase. “I have every single test of Harrison’s right here, and I would like an independent grader.”
“He’s rude, and he needs to repeat.”
“He’s gifted and tired of being discriminated against. Tell me, Mrs. Henderson, have you ever had his IQ tested?”
“No . . . but—”
“Do you think it’s possible that you are intimidated by this child, and you purposely try and get him sent out of class so that he doesn’t activate your own inferiority complex?”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Smithers retorts. “You are very rude, Mr. Miles.”
Tristan turns his attention to her. “On another topic, Mrs. Smithers, I would like a report on what you are doing to help Patrick Anderson.”
Her eyes widen. “For what?”
“He has dyslexia, and under state law your school receives special funding for extra help for him. Where is it?”
Oh, he’s good.
“I don’t appreciate you coming in here and slinging your accusations around,” Mrs. Smithers snaps.
Tristan glares at her. “And I don’t appreciate incompetence.” He stands. “You will be hearing from the education board with regard to this matter.” He takes Harry’s hand. “Harrison won’t be back. Nor Patrick, for that matter.”
“And where are you going to send him?” Mrs. Henderson smirks sarcastically.
“They’ll be attending Trinity School.”
“Ha,” Mrs. Smithers laughs. “He won’t get in there. They won’t take him with his behavior record.”
“We’ll see.” He smiles at the people in the room with an eerie confidence. “You know, intelligent people scare stupid people.” He turns to the woman taking notes. “Did you get that?”
She glares at him.
“What does that supposed to mean?” Mrs. Henderson snaps.
“What is that supposed to mean,” Tristan corrects her. “Let’s go; we are wasting our time here.”
He marches out the door, leading Harrison by the hand, and we walk out through the playground. I had considered moving schools before but thought the boys had had enough changes to deal with. “Do you want to go and say goodbye to your friends?” Tristan asks him.
“Nah, my friends don’t even go here anymore.”
Tristan frowns down at him. “Who do you hang around with now? Where are your friends from?”
“Sports and the skate park.”
“So . . . what about at school?”
“I sit alone every day.”
I stare at him . . . and my heart breaks. God, this is worse than I ever imagined.
We climb into the car, and Tristan puts his seat belt on. “Good riddance, Mrs. Henderson, you stupid old bag.” He pulls out into the traffic.
I smirk as I look out the window.
I’m in love with Superman.
My hero.
The boys all bounce in excitement on the couch, and Harry dials Tristan’s number. “You need to hurry!” he cries before hanging up.
I smile as I sip my wine. The big game is on, and the boys are really into it. It’s funny—they have never been into watching it before. Tristan has gotten them totally addicted. They all sit together on one couch and scream and laugh and yell at the ref.
Days of Tristan living with us have turned into weeks and then months.
Seven wonderful months, to be exact.
Our home is happy for the first time in a long time. The boys adore him, I am so happy, and even Muff is obsessed with my boyfriend. He follows him around, purring.
If I could just get over these work issues, my life would be perfect.
I’m losing control of Anderson Media. We have no advertising contracts left, and nobody is renewing. We’re on skeleton staff, and I lie awake every night worrying about money. Tristan has no idea. I have no doubt he will be furious with me for not telling him when he finally finds out, but I don’t want to tell him until I absolutely have to. He already does so much for me and the boys. He insists on paying for their private schooling. He drops them there every morning and has his driver pick them up every afternoon and bring them home.
Never in a million years did I think my sons would be picked up from the most exclusive school in New York every day by a limo.
And besides, I don’t want to appear weaker than I already feel. If he knows about my situation, then I have to talk about it with him, and at the moment, he’s my safe place, where nothing is corrupted.
I want him to be proud of me, like I am of him.
The door bursts open, and Tristan comes racing in. “What’s happening?” he cries as he stares at the television.
“You missed the kickoff!” Harry yells.
Tristan throws his jacket off and marches into the kitchen. “Hey, baby,” he says as he kisses me quickly.
I smile up at him, but before I have time to reply, he grabs a beer from the fridge and runs back out into the living room to the boys watching the game. “No!” he cries. They all begin to yell at something in the game.
I smile, and an unwanted resentment falls over me. I wish I could be so excited about something. I have this black cloud of fear hanging over me.
Everything that Wade worked so hard to build is disappearing before my eyes.
He wanted the boys to attend a public school in Long Island, and they aren’t. He wanted them to grow up without excess money. I’m pretty sure having a limo pick them up from school every day blows that out of the water.
And now Anderson Media, the career that Wade worked so hard on creating—his biggest dream was to hand it down to the boys.
Now I’m losing it . . . I’m losing that too.
I exhale heavily as I go back to my laptop.
Wade . . . help me.
I’m tired. This week has been a never-ending roll of meetings with the board. We are in the final stages of staying afloat, and I don’t know what to do. I look over to Tristan as he drives. “Where are we going?” I ask.
He smiles over at me like the cat that got the cream. He picks up my hand and kisses my fingertips. “I have a surprise for you.”
The boys chatter in the back seat among themselves, and I try to calm my nerves. I’m not in the mood for surprises. I’m so anxious that I’m nearly suffocating.
If something drastic doesn’t happen, if I don’t get a big injection of funds from somewhere, the writing is on the wall—the liquidators will be moving in within the next six to eight weeks and taking my company from me. I will be forced into bankruptcy. The company insolvent.
I want to talk to Tristan about it, but I don’t want him to worry or feel that he has to put the money in. I already declined the Ferrara offer; now my only other option is to sell to Miles Media, but then I know I’ll hold that grudge against Tristan forever. He will always be the man who took Wade’s dream from us, and I really don’t want it to affect our relationship. Because I know if it does come to that . . . it will.
How could it not?
I think back to how hard Wade worked so that he would have something to hand down to his sons. And in the five and a half years since his death, I have effectively killed everything he worked for.
I’m sick to my stomach.
Tristan chats and laughs with the boys, carefree as he drives, and an unwelcome jealousy fills me. He has no idea what it’s like to struggle.
He’s never had to do it.
I know he works so hard and deserves everything he has, but it’s . . . I can’t even articulate what it is I’m feeling . . . resentment, maybe?
I don’t know why I’m feeling like this now, but with the oncoming demise of Anderson Media, it’s suddenly eating at me.
Maybe I’m just hormonal, or maybe it’s because of the way we met.
From day one I have always known that Wade’s company has been on Miles Media’s acquisitions list. They wanted it, made no secret of it.
I pushed it out of my mind for so long . . . but now that it’s impending, it’s all I can think about. Everything Wade wanted is coming to an end, and I just don’t know how to stop it.
We pull up on the street in front of a grand house, and Tristan smiles over at me.
“What’s this?” I ask flatly.
A man gets out of the car in front of us and smiles broadly.
Tristan waves. “Come on, boys, Claire.”
“What are we doing?” I frown.
“Looking at this house.”
“What for?”
“Because I want to buy it for us.” He climbs out of the car, and the boys bounce out after him.
“What?” I frown.
He waves me out . . . fucking hell, I don’t have time for this shit. I get out of the car and walk up to him as he talks to the man.
“Michael, this is Claire, my partner,” he introduces me.
“Hello.” I fake a smile as I shake his hand.
“And these are my boys, Fletcher, Harrison, and Patrick.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. His boys.
They are Wade’s boys.
“What a beautiful family you have.” Michael smiles as he leads us up the path toward the house.
“Yes, I do.” Tristan smiles proudly. He’s holding Patrick’s hand and has his other hand on Harry’s shoulder protectively. Fletcher walks with them as they go into the house.
I begin to see red. Why is he showing me houses? I’m not fucking moving from Long Island. I own my house. I’m comfortable there . . . we’re comfortable there.
It’s our home.
It’s what Wade wanted.
I begin to hear my angry heartbeat in my ears as I trail behind.
Calm down . . . calm down . . . calm down. You’re just stressed; calm the fuck down.
The house is huge and set on a large plot of land in a leafy suburb about twenty minutes out of New York. Michael begins his sales pitch. “This is the foyer.”
It’s about the size of our current living room and has a grand sweeping staircase that splits into two near the top level.
Tristan smiles and takes my hand excitedly. “I’ll show them around, Michael,” he says.
My eyes flick to him in question. What? He’s been here before?
How long has he been looking for a house on the sly? I begin to fume inside.
“Of course.” Michael smiles. “I’ll wait outside.”
Michael disappears out the front door, and Tristan smiles proudly. “Pretty sweet, right?”
“Hmm,” I reply as I look around.
“Out here is the kitchen.” We walk through to a large kitchen, and I roll my lips in annoyance. “Wiz and I could cook up a storm,” he says. Harry’s eyes widen in excitement.
I hate it.
Wade has never lived here; his memories are in our current house.
I don’t want new ones without him.
I don’t want to erase everything that he stood for. Why doesn’t Tristan get that?
My pulse begins to throb in my temples, and I feel like I’m about to explode.
I am now seeing red. I can’t deal with this.
“This is the living area,” he gushes.
The boys run to the back windows. “Oh my God, look at the pool,” Patrick cries.
“It has a pool bar, Mom,” Fletcher gasps.
“You’re not old enough to drink,” I snap.
“And look,” Tristan says as he leads me through the house excitedly. “This could be your office.” We peer into a room. It has a large window seat and looks out onto a leafy veranda. “And this could be my office, next door.” He shows me into the office. “There’s a bathroom down here. A second living area for the boys. A gymnasium.”
The boys run through the house in excitement.
Fury begins to burn a hole in my stomach.
How dare he?
He leads me upstairs and down the hall. “Look at the master suite, Claire.” He pulls me into the room, and I look around as I try to hold my sarcastic tongue.
It’s beautiful and the size of half my current house.
“And the bathroom.” He smiles excitedly. I peer in, and it has a huge white-marble bath like I’ve always fantasized about. “Look at the size of your closet, babe.”
Something snaps deep inside of me. “It’s not my closet, Tristan,” I bark.
He pulls me into his arms. “But you like it . . . right?” I look around as I search for something nonbitchy to say.
I’ve got nothing.
The boys all scream in excitement as they look at the rest of the upstairs.
“I’m having this room,” Harry cries.
“I want this one!” Patrick yells.
“I can see the pool from mine.”
Tristan’s eyes search mine. “What do you think?”
“About what?” I snap.
“Do you like it? I think I’ll make an offer today.”
“An offer for what?”
“To buy it for us to live in—what else?”
I screw up my face at his presumption. “I don’t want to live here.”
“Why not?” His face falls. “It’s close to the boys’ new school. You, Fletch, and I all work in New York. There’s a yard for Muff and Woofy.” He smiles as he pulls me into his arms again. “It’s perfect for us.”
“I’m not moving, Tristan,” I insist. “I want to live in the house we are in.”
“Claire,” he says flatly, and I know he’s about to give me his hard-core sales pitch. I can already tell he’s made up his mind on this house, and when Tristan Miles decides he wants something, he doesn’t give up until he gets it.
I’m shutting this down right now.
“I’m not moving,” I snap. “End of story.” I pull away from him and storm downstairs and out to the car.
“How was it?” Michael smiles as I walk out onto the street.
“Lovely,” I reply.
“Can you see yourself living here?” He winks.
I glare at him as the last of my patience dissipates. “No. I can’t, actually.”
I get into the car and slam the door, and ten minutes later Tristan and the boys amble out of the house. I watch as he talks to Michael as the boys all listen, and then finally they get into the car.
The boys are all excited and talking about everything they have just seen.
Tristan gives me a sideways glance, annoyed with me.
“What?” I snap.
“Don’t give me what,” he growls as he pulls out into the street. “You didn’t even look at it.”
“I don’t have to. I’m not moving from my home in Long Island.”
“It’s too small for us.” He rolls his eyes, as if I’m an idiot, and my blood begins to boil.
“I want my boys to have room to have their friends over,” he asserts angrily.
Something snaps inside of me.
Wade had plans for his sons, and I can’t ignore them.
I won’t.
“They are Wade’s boys,” I bark. “You need to stop calling them your boys.”
The car falls deathly silent.
He narrows his eyes at me. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
I glare out the front windshield and cross my arms, too angry to form words.
“You do know, Claire . . . that when we get married—”
“If we get married,” I fume.
“I will be adopting the boys.”
“What?” I explode. I stare at him for a moment in utter shock . . . what the fuck? He wants to adopt them. “That’s not happening, Tristan.”
“What?” he screams.
“They already have a father,” I snap.
“I want them as my sons in the eyes of the law.”
“Well, you can’t fucking have them legally. You get to live with them—that’s enough.”
“Mom!” Fletcher cries from the back. “Stop it.”
Tristan’s eyes bulge from their sockets. His eyes flick between the road and me. “So you’re telling me I can care for them, I can love them, but I can’t ever call them my sons.”
“They have a father,” I repeat. “And they will remember and respect his wishes.”
“He’s fucking dead, Claire,” he barks. “And I won’t be punished because he’s gone. I want them legally to be my sons.”
I lose the last of my control. “It’s never fucking happening,” I splutter. “They are my and Wade’s sons. Not yours. They will never be yours. I told you to find someone else and have your own children—you can’t have Wade’s.”
He punches the steering wheel as he loses control, and we all jump. Patrick starts to cry.
“You’re scaring him.”
Tristan grips the steering wheel with white-knuckle force. His eyes fill with tears as he stares straight ahead.
Why did I say that?
Tears well in my eyes, and I angrily wipe them away.
We drive in silence the rest of the way, and he pulls into the driveway. He leaves the car going.
“Are you coming, Tris?” Harry whispers.
“No, buddy,” Tristan replies as he stares straight ahead. “I’ll call you later.”
“No, Tristan,” Patrick begs. “Please come in.” He begins to cry. “Don’t go.” He grabs him over the back of his seat as he begs him not to leave.
Tristan closes his eyes.
I get out of the car, angry that my children would choose him over me. Surely they get my point? Don’t they have any loyalty to their father?
“Get out of the car,” I demand to the boys.
Fletcher gets out.
“Get out of the car,” I snap. Patrick slowly gets out.
Harry sits tight.
“Get out of the car, Harrison.”
“I’m going with Tristan.”
I’m furious. How dare he say that in front of the boys and put me in the position where they think I’m the bad guy? I’m being loyal to their father . . . and so should they.
“You will do no such thing.” I yank the door open and grab his arm as he fights me. “Let me go!” he screams as he kicks at me. “I want to stay with him.”
Tristan pinches the bridge of his nose, overwhelmed by the situation.
I struggle to get him out as the two other boys watch in horror, and I slam the car door hard.
The tires screech as Tristan takes off like a maniac.
I turn to the boys. Tears run down their faces as they glare at me. “I hate you,” Harry cries. “Make him come back.”
He runs inside and slams the door.
“You ruined everything, Mom!” Patrick yells.
They turn and run inside after Harry.
I close my eyes . . . fuck, how the hell did that escalate to this?
