Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 27

“X?”

I shake my head. “Yes?”

“You with me, babe? I asked you what you were expecting me to make a toast to.”

I blink. Breathe. Summon my wits. Smile up at you, feigning easy humor I don’t quite feel. “My dress?”

You laugh. “Ah. Your dress. Yes, well . . . that’s worth a toast, too, I’d say.”

Your eyes are warm, friendly. I sometimes do not recognize you as the arrogant, idle, oafish brat you once were, only a few weeks ago. Even from the last time I saw you, you’ve gained bearing, confidence. You’ve found yourself, I think. I set you in motion, but you did the rest.

You lift your flute to mine. “To the sexiest dress in the room.”

I smile, toast, drink.

We are still only a few steps into the ballroom.

“Jonathan. Who is your ravishing guest?” An older man, silver hair with a bit of black at the temples. Your eyes, a different nose and chin. “Introduce me, son.”

“Dad . . . Jonathan Edward Cartwright the Second, I mean—may I introduce to you Madame X.”

In the confines of my home, where I conduct business, with the painting on the wall to lend credence, my name is apropos, a thing of mystery and power. Here . . . it just seems awkward.

I shove down all thoughts, summon my cloak of indifference, my armor of cool dignity. “Mr. Cartwright. Well met.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Madame X.” Your father’s eyes do not communicate pleasure, however. There is hostility. An air of ruthless calculation. “You’ve done a wonderful job with my son. I must admit, I was skeptical of the program, even though I signed him up for it. But you’ve done wonders. More than I expected, that’s for damn sure. “

You shift from foot to foot, uncomfortable. “Dad, I don’t think this is the time or place to—”

“Shut up, Jonathan—your betters are speaking.” Your father dismisses you, brusquely, casually, brutally.

You do your best not to flinch, but your expression, which perhaps only I can read so easily, communicates a deep, familiar pain. I see where you learned your mannerisms, and what long-ingrained habits you daily fight to become the man you are becoming.

I feel my claws extend. “I must agree with Jonathan, Mr. Cartwright. This is very much not the time or place to discuss such things. This is a social event, after all, and there are . . . shall I say . . . certain clauses dictating knowledge of who I am and what I do. Clauses that by their nature preclude open discussion in a public setting such as this.”

“I see. Well.” Eyes narrow in open hostility now. “I suppose I have you to thank for my son’s abrupt desire to strike out on his own?”

“You do.” I smile and keep my tone friendly, sugar sweet as I pour poison. “He was suffering. His natural talents and skills were being wasted. You were wasting your own son’s potential. Intentionally, it seems to me. Any chance at real happiness or success for your son was being throttled by your obvious disdain. I did not intentionally guide him away from you or your company, nor did I advise him on any business matters in any way. That’s not my job. My job was to show him how to be his own person, and that, now that I’ve met you, clearly meant helping him overcome the massive handicap of being your son. Jonathan will do amazing things, now that he’s out from under your thumb, Mr. Cartwright. Much to your loss, as well, I should think.”

You choke on champagne. “X, I see some friends of mine over there. Let’s go say hi, huh?”

I allow you to pull me away from your father, who is fuming, red in the face, forehead vein throbbing dangerously. Perhaps the senior Cartwright will suffer a heart attack. I find myself not entirely displeased by the prospect.

You haul me across the room toward a small knot of younger men, all about your age, each one with a woman clinging to a tuxedoed arm, glamorous-looking models dripping in diamonds, all shallow smiles and fake breasts. Before we reach the cluster of your friends, however, you pull me to the side, to the bar along one wall. You order two beers, tossing back your champagne as you wait. I sip mine, and wait.

You have something to say, and so I allow you time to formulate your words. That you’re thinking before you speak is encouraging.

“No one has ever stood up for me before, X. No one. Not ever, not in anything. And no one talks to Dad that way.”

“About time, then.”

You muster a weak smile, then accept the glass of pilsner, downing half of it before turning back to me. “Yeah, I guess so. The point I’m trying to make here is . . . thanks. I’ve never mattered to that bastard. I never will.”

“You only have to matter to yourself.”

“Yeah, I get that. But I think it’s just basic human nature to want to matter to your own fucking father.”

“I suppose so,” I say. “But self-preservation is also an essential factor of human nature.”

“Aren’t you worried you made an enemy of him?”

I shake my head. “Not at all. There’s nothing he can do to harm me. If it made trouble for Caleb, then so be it. Trouble for Caleb is Caleb’s business, not mine.” I wrap my fingers around your arm. “Let’s go say hi to your friends.”

You snort. “Those assholes? They aren’t my friends. They’re just some dickheads I know. Guys like I used to be. Rich, self-centered, conceited, and totally useless. Not one of them has ever done a real day’s work in their entire lives. And those bitches on their arms? Just like them. Rich bitches who do nothing but shop on Fifth Avenue and get Botoxed and snort coke and go on never-ending vacations to the Hamptons or fucking Turks and Caicos, all of it on their parents’ dime. Not one of them has ever done a single thing for themselves. And I was just like them.”

“And now?”

“I always wanted to take over for Dad. I wanted in. I wanted to . . . to be a part of what he was doing. He’s a horrible person and shitty father, but he’s a hell of a businessman. So I was never like those guys in that from the time I was a sophomore in high school I was working in the mail room or in the copy room, working my ass off nights and weekends, paying my dues. Dad never gave me a single break for being his son. He ordered everyone to treat me exactly like any other candidate for every position I angled for. And some people, because I was a Cartwright, treated me even worse. But I played the game. I sucked it up and did my best. I’ve worked every single day of my life since tenth grade. I’ve got my own money. I bought my Maserati with my own cash. I bought my condo with my own cash. I got a business loan on my own and raised start-up capital for my business, all without using a single one of Dad’s connections. But none of that matters.” You finish one beer and start on the next. I’m on my fourth sip of champagne. “I was supposed to keep working for him, keep being pushed aside and passed over and treated like shit. And now that I’m in business for myself, he hates me even more.”

“So it sounds as if you were never actually like them?”

“I acted like them, though. Like an asshole. Entitled. Spoiled. I’ve never been anything but rich. I do what I want, when I want. Yeah, I earn my own income, but I still ran through women like they were nothing. One after another, just for the hell of it. Treated everyone around me like shit.”

“What changed?” I am very curious.

“You.” You don’t look at me as you say this.

My heart sinks. Twists. “Me? Jonathan, I did nothing but what I was paid to do.”

“I want you, X. But I can’t have you, and I know that. It burns my ass, you know that? We’re not even friends. I don’t even get that much. But you . . . you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. You . . . matter. You need no one, you need nothing. You don’t take shit, not from anyone. I don’t know what it was . . . what it is about you that made me see everything differently. I honestly don’t know. I just . . . since meeting you, I guess I just want to be someone that matters.”