Page 181 of Modern Romance October 2025 5-8
Charlotte compressed her lips. She always made the distinction of calling Aristotle Papandreo ‘biological father’, even though there was no other father in the picture—her mother had never re-married, or so far as Charlotte knew, even gotten close to dating. How could she, as a woman, who’d essentially become a shadow of herself, thanks to living through such a betrayal and heartbreak?
‘And as a result of this, he now feels that the time is right to acknowledge my existence?’ She faltered a little on the word ‘acknowledge’. In truth, it caught in her throat like a blade. Such a simple word. Three syllables that hid a lifetime of hurt, because every day, every milestone, every birthday, every triumph without her father’s acknowledgement had been a kick in the teeth. Over time, she’d hardened her heart and told herself she didn’t evenwantto meet him, but that didn’t stop the wound from seeping.
‘Indeed.’ The central lawyer—Charlotte wished she could remember any of their names—smiled, as if this was the sort of bountiful news she’d woken up desperate to hear.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed in a silent rejection of that premise.
‘And he would like to meet me.’
‘In due course, yes.’
‘In due course’ sounded like a cop-out to Charlotte. It sounded like a promise to be broken. A weak, watery sounding out of the daughter he’d spent twenty four years refusing to know.
‘I see.’
‘The reason we’re involved—’ the blond man flanking old guy’s other side leaned forward, bright blue eyes latching on to Charlotte’s, ‘—is that there are some other legalities to be aware of.’
‘You said something about the company,’ she repeated, sipping her coffee again, needing another touchstone to one of the most important and familiar things in her life.
‘The Papandreo Group is very old,’ he said. ‘The first business was a bank, based in Athens, in the seventeenth century. The majority of the family’s wealth is controlled by an ancient—some might say arcane—provision, which is surprisingly still in effect.’
Charlotte moved her hands beneath the table and clasped them in her lap.
‘The right of ownership and control of the Papandreo Group will pass to whichever descendant marries first, after their eighteenth birthday.’
Charlotte nodded a little jerkily, though it made hardly any sense. ‘Are you saying that if I were married, I would legally be able to take possession of the company?’
‘Yes.’ The blond smiled, nodding. ‘That’s exactly it.’
Charlotte’s throat went dry. Her eyes filled with stars. ‘But I’m not married.’
‘No, and the company is being very successfully run by your half-brother, Zeus Papandreo,’ the older lawyer said, as if this were all by-the-by, when in fact, he couldn’t have hand-picked a phrase more perfectly designed to inflame Charlotte’s strong sense of injustice than that which had just been uttered. ‘And you have your own career. Rather than focusing on the stipulations of the company’s bylaws, you should consider the financial settlement Aristotle is proposing to make in your favour, as well as his desire to publicly welcome you into the family.’
Charlotte could feel the screech rising in her throat. It was only with the strongest force of will she managed to contain it, to bite it back. She was in overload mode—too much information was being layered over way too many feelings, way too much anger and resentment, bitterness and hurt. She scraped her chair back and moved to stand behind it, digging her fingers into the soft leather. She was aware of their eyes, all on her, with a mix of expressions—from sympathy to surprise to interest.
‘Thank you for your time, gentlemen. There’s a lot there I need to consider.’
‘Of course.’ The blond rallied first, reaching into his breast pocket and removing a thick, white card, which he slid across the table. ‘This is my number, if you have any questions, at any time. It’s a lot to take in.’
‘Yes.’ Charlotte nodded as she picked up the card and pushed it into the back pocket of her skin-tight leather pants—a jackpot find from the local thrift shop. The store was just a short walk from her best friend Jane’s apartment—which Lottie had moved into about a year before. ‘I will.’
‘Good, good,’ the older man stood, rubbing his hands together, as if to congratulate himself on a job well done. ‘Is there anything I should tell Mr Papandreo?’
‘Tell him?’
‘He asked us to report back to him. Would you like us to say—,’
Charlotte pulled a face, as if she were being stabbed. It hurt just as much.
Apparently, because her ‘father’ had now decided to acknowledge her, he expected her to gleefully fall in line and what? Begratefulto him? She shuddered with revulsion.
‘There isnothing, and I meannothingI want to say to that man—and he should be very glad to hear it. Because, believe me, if I were ever to give him a piece of my mind, I doubt he’d recover from the shock.’ She straightened, pleased to see their reactions, their surprise, and glad to have landed that hit. ‘Though you are welcome to pass that message along, of course, in the interest of discharging your duties.’ She turned and walked, with a confidence she wasn’t quite feeling, towards the door of their boardroom. ‘Thank you again for your time.’
She left without speaking another word, but they were all zooming and zipping around her head. The myriad of things she would havelovedto throw at her father, without the intermediary of lawyers to take the sting out of it.
How she hated that man, and his smarmy, arrogant, over-achieving son. How sheloathed themand always had.
For the hurts Aristotle Papandreo had thrown at Charlotte all her life weren’t just about how he’d refused to acknowledge her and shown no interest in knowing even a thing about her. No, it was worse than that. Because he had a son. A golden-boy child, who had grown up in his father’s shadow, and his grandfather’s shadow, who’d been raised in the mould of a Papandreo and swaggered with the confidence of a man who could do no wrong.
