Page 105 of Impossible Love

Then he’s gone.

It’s a long and chilly trip back to San Diego. My father is on his phone most of the time, barking orders and preparing the Renaissance lawyers to go to battle with Jamie. I ignore him. I have my own battle plans to finalize.

Millicent and I are texting back and forth for most of the ride. She’s updating me on my many requests. She’s found the documents I requested on the Mercado deal, the West Cliff acquisition, and that complete shit show from last year, the Salcedo Hills buyout.

Me: How about Sulfur Springs?

Millicent: Got it all. Who’s Arlo Westervelt?

Me: Tell you soon.

Millicent: You’re scheduled to meet with outside legal counsel tomorrow morning. I think your suspicions were spot on.

Me: Not happy to hear that. But not surprised.

Millicent: What’s your ETA? Should I meet you in your office?

Me: No. The condo. We’ll work there to avoid prying eyes. My guess is two hours.

Millicent: Are you OK, Victoria?

Me: LOL. Nope. I’m a hot mess inside a dumpster fire. It’s bad.

Millicent: I’m sorry. What should I bring with me to your place?

Me: Ice cream. Double fudge brownie.

Millicent: Oh, shit.

I laugh. My father glares at me. I slip my phone into my bag and wait for his opening shot. And here it comes…

“I am so immensely disappointed in you.”

“I imagine you are.”

He taps his headset and tips his head toward the pilot. “We’ll continue this discussion in my office.”

“Sounds perfect.”

It sounds far from perfect, but I’m glad for the reprieve. It gives me time to pull myself together.

Because I feel hollowed out, empty. I feel lost without Cal. I already miss the ranch. And I realize I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Jasmine. Or Summer. Or Phoebe. Or all the brothers.

I turn my face to the window and force myself to stop the tears before they start. Because once they do, I’m afraid they may never stop.

We land on the rooftop of Renaissance Empowered. The pilot says he’ll get my bags to my car and have someone drive it from the parking garage for me. I thank him and quietly apologize for my father’s bad behavior.

“I’m used to it,” he says.

Within minutes, we’re in my father’s office. He flips on the lights and retreats behind his giant desk. Maybe he feels protected there, more powerful than he really is.

It’s sunset, and his office has an uninterrupted view of the bay and the Pacific Ocean beyond. We’re surrounded by very expensive modern furniture, Persian rugs, sculptures, and paintings worth a fortune.

“Have a seat, Victoria.” He gestures to one of the leather-and-chrome armchairs near his desk.

“I’d prefer to stand. I have a feeling this won’t take long.”

He laughs. It’s an ugly sound. It strikes me how when I was little, I thought my father was the kindest and most handsome man in the world. He was a prince in my eyes. He could do no wrong.

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