Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison
14
Payton
Thankfully,Trent turned on my phone because I need to call Heather and check-in. But I’m feeling less than thankful when a horde of messages and voicemails turn the device into a vibrator for a solid minute. There are dozens of missed messages from Erin, accompanied by voicemails I’d rather not listen to.
On the plus side, no phone meant no prank calls.
I wonder if those will start up again, or if like I suspected, they were the workings of Trent Aldridge.
Grabbing my phone, I fire off a text to my best friend.
I’m not up for talking today, but I need her to know I’m okay. So I tell her just that.
Me:A ton of shit went down today. I’m okay, but I’ll fill you in at school.
Heather:But you ARE okay?
I finger my hair, debating whether to tell the truth before settling with a quick answer that won’t worry her.
Me:Yes.
Heather: Does this have anything to do with why you showed up at my house?
Don’t get her involved with this, I warn myself.
I would never forgive myself if something happened to Heather.
Me:. . .
Heather: That’s not an answer.
Me:I promise I’ll talk to you, but I can’t get into it yet.
Heather:Okay, just promise if you need me before class, you’ll call.
Me:Promise.
The moment I stop typing, the phone rings again.
Erin.
Jeez.
The girl doesn’t get a hint.
I sigh, answering because I know it won’t stop until I do. “Hello?”
“Where are you?”
In Hell.
“It’s a long story.”
“I went to your house, and it’s boarded up. What did you do?”
It’s such an Erin thing to say, so laced with a venomous accusation that I can’t help but laugh.
“God, Erin, why do you think it’s always me?”
“Things go to shit when you are around,” she answers, and I need to bite my tongue to stop myself from unleashing my beast on her.
As much as I want to tell her why that’s not true, I’m too tired to fight right now. That’s how it is with Erin. The victor in the argument is always the one left standing. Doesn’t matter how wrong or right the winner is. It’s about the stamina, and Trent Aldridge has just about drained me dry.
“Are you calling just to yell at me? Because I am busy.”
I’m not busy at all.
I mean, unless you consider pacing the length of my gilded cage important. At the very least, it’s more important than this conversation.
“Busy doing what?”
“If that’s all, Erin, I have to go.” My thumb hovers over the end button, my patience dwindling by the second. I can’t believe I didn’t want to live with her because SHE lives with a creeper. Irony at its best and all.
“Wait!” she shouts, and like a glutton for punishment, I do. “Just tell me you didn’t get evicted because you did something stupid and lost my money.”
“What kind of an idiot do you take me for?” I huff. I’m done with this right now. “I’ve got to run. I’ll call you back.”
Then, before she can dig into me some more, I’m hanging up, throwing myself on the bed, and closing my eyes. My day just started, and I’m already exhausted.
Two days have goneby since I’ve seen Trent. It’s now Monday, and I don’t know where I stand.
Do I go to school?
Class doesn’t start for about five hours.
Fuck it, I’m going.
I spent the weekend in my bedroom and only came out to grab food, sneaking into the kitchen and raiding the stocked fridge as silently as I could.
A part of me expected him to storm in with a mop and bucket and have me cleaning already.
But color me surprised when it’s completely radio silent where Trent Aldridge is concerned. There’s been nothing from him.
Not a damn thing.
He hasn’t even been here at the loft, I don’t think.
I should count myself lucky, but instead of feeling relief, I’m on edge. It’s a bit frightening. And perhaps by design. You never know with Trent. I’m starting to understand that. The hard way.
It’s like I know there’s another set of shoes about to drop soon, and now I’m waiting. It makes every second unbearable.
Way too many things are falling from the sky and landing on my head these days. I’m going to have to invest in a steel umbrella.
A knock on my door breaks me from my thoughts.
I’m already dressed and showered, so I get off the edge of the bed where I’m sitting and head over to open it.
A stout woman stands before me, dressed in a crisp pantsuit and pearls. She’s wearing an expressionless mask, talking into a headset looped around her earlobe. When she sees me, she pauses and clicks a button on the headset.
“Hello.” She nods her head in greeting. It’s formal and stiff, like everything else about her. “I’m Gail. I work for Mr. Aldridge. He informed me that you will be helping out around the house while Christina is away.”
The name tag pinned to her chest reads Gail Hanley, and below it, her title as house manager. It sinks in. She’s treating me like I am her employee. And given my deal with Trent, I guess I am.
“Yes.” I nod. “Did you need me now?”
If she finds my arrangement with Trent weird, she doesn’t show it. She steps to the side, making way for me. “I do.”
At her words, I follow her, closing the door behind me. “I have class in a few hours.”
“Yes, Mr. Aldridge has made us aware of your schedule. This morning, it will only be light work. Just helping to tidy the kitchen for Chef.”
We round the long hall, which spits us out in the living room.
“You call the chef, Chef?”
I feel like I’m in an alternate universe. A universe where there are house managers, private chefs, and maids. A universe . . . in the eighteenth century?
I don’t belong.
I don’t want to belong.
Not even for a second.
Fuck, if someone puts a chastity belt on me, I’m going to scream.
Because I know, without a doubt, the only way Trent Aldridge would let me inside permanently is as someone serving him.
Hard pass.
Gail adjusts a painting as we pass. It didn’t even look crooked in the first place, but she shifts it no more than a centimeter at the furthest edge and continues walking as if this is normal for her.
“Mr. Aldridge brought a chef in from a Michelin-star restaurant, and well . . .” She trails off, heeled toes pounding the hardwood floors at a pace nearly impossible for my short legs to keep up with. “Chef likes to be called that.”
“Um. Okay.”
She laughs, which is a sound I don’t expect from her. So, naturally, it’s the driest laugh I’ve ever heard.
“Believe me when I warn you,” she says, stopping to blow away nonexistent dust from a nearby surface. “You don’t want to piss off Chef.”
“Got it. Don’t piss off the chef.”
My comment is met with a passive expression, and I have a feeling Gail doesn’t do emotions. That’s okay. Supposing she treats me fairly, we’ll have no issues.
Maybe we can even be allies.
“How many people does Mr. Aldridge employ?” A hundred? A million? The entire state of New fucking York?
“There is Chef. Michael, the driver. His personal assistant, Allison. He also has Brandon, who runs security. Christina cleans the place, but she’s on leave for personal reasons. There’s also me and now you. Seven total. But often more. It really depends on where he is going or who he is working with. Sometimes, Brandon brings in more security, and it gets crowded.” Her lips turn down at the end, like the idea of people invading her territory displeases her.
“Why does one man need seven employees?” I mumble under my breath, and the moment I do, I realize that she could probably hear me. Meh, good thing I don’t care.
We were getting off on the right foot. I would hate to ruin that. Maybe Gail can be a good person to have on my side in this house.
Sure enough, her response is fast—and in defense of her boss. “He’s a very busy man, and he works with many important people.”
“Sorry. That was rude of me to ask.”
“It’s okay,” she says in a tone that implies it isn’t. “I’m sure this is quite the change. I’m not exactly certain what landed you in this position but know that Mr. Aldridge is usually a fair man.”
Fair.
My brows shoot upward.
I take what I said before back. Gail will never be my ally. Not with the way she waxes poetic about the devil that is Trent Aldridge. I want to roll my eyes at her, but I know that will not do me any favors with someone who is, technically, my superior.
I have to at least try to be friendly.
Also, it’s not her fault. Truly, she probably doesn’t know what he’s done to me. I’m sure to the rest of his staff, he’s wonderful. Not a manipulative ass who canceled my present and is holding my future hostage.
I follow Gail into the kitchen. The place is massive, like everything Trent owns and does. It’s made of dark, earthy materials. Surprisingly welcoming. The ranges are top-of-the-line. All eight of the burners are in pristine condition. Every technological advancement I can think of seems to be here, from the newest blenders to a cutting-edge scale.
A set of shiny fridges line the opposite wall. An actual wall of machines. I’ve never met anyone who owned more than a single fridge.
One man.
Three fridges.
Maybe that’s where he hides all the bodies.
I walk the row, realizing one of them is a freezer, another a fridge for food, and the final one covered with a clear glass door. I peer inside. Rows of drinks cover every space. Bottled water, seltzer, and pricey liquor that hammers in the fact that he doesn’t need my inheritance at all.
He just wants revenge.
Revenge for something I had nothing to do with.
I sigh, turning back to the rest of the kitchen. From what I can tell, it’s fairly clean, and I’m thankful it won’t be hard work.
That’s what I think until I round the island and find myself standing in front of the sink.
“Jeez,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Chef uses a lot of dishes.”
“You think?” How is this dude not five hundred pounds?
“This is from this morning’s light breakfast.”
Just breakfast? All this from one meal?
“How many meals a day does Chef cook?”
“Breakfast and dinner. Mr. Aldridge spends his lunch in the office, where I assume his assistant purchases his meals on his behalf.”
Two meals a day.
A light breakfast, she said.
Fuck my life. I found the cure for world hunger, and it’s in this guy’s kitchen.
The sink must contain over ten pots and pans, and that doesn’t even count spatulas, utensils, plates, and bowls.
Gail opens and closes cabinets, showing me where the cleaning gear is. “Let me preface your tenure by saying, Chef doesn’t want anything in the dishwasher.”
Of course, he doesn’t. I’m sure this lady already must think I’m trash that Trent picked up on the street.
She certainly would balk at the fact that I’m doing this all for money.
Not just any money . . .
A twenty-two-million-dollar inheritance.
The truth is, I probably could fight him.
Over the past few days, unbeknownst to Trent, I did my research. I had no intention of taking this man’s threats.
But it didn’t take me long to find out his threats were not lies.
He was connected. Very connected.
Not only did he rub elbows with Manhattan’s elite, as evidenced by paparazzi photos, but he also ran in dangerous circles. With Cyrus Reed, the man who accompanied Trent’s sister at the will reading.
That’s the part that freaks me out.
The rumors of who his clients are.
Arms dealers.
Mafia.
Drug dealers.
Who is Trent Aldridge? The better question is, if he thinks his dad was the devil despite his association with men who legitimately are, then Ronald must have really been awful.
That’s if I can take Trent’s word on it. I never saw that side of Ronald, but what I have learned throughout my life is that everyone has a devil in them. Even my sister. So regardless of my feelings on Trent, I’ll take his word for it.
Gail moves to leave, stopping just short of where the kitchen feeds into the open plan living room. “There’s a schedule in the drawer to your left, which includes when you’ll need to descale the appliances, instructions on how to care for specific items like the cast-iron skillet, and a list of Chef’s things you are never to touch, the most important of which are his knives.”
It sinks in that I’m in over my head. I’ve never descaled an appliance, I thought cast-iron skillets just get washed normally like everything else, and I don’t even want to know what will happen if I touch Chef’s knives.
With that parting warning, Gail leaves. I roll up my sleeves and start to wash each dish, aware I don’t have long to finish this and prepare to leave for class. The man must have had a banquet.
It looks like fresh berries, yogurt, a homemade citrus sauce, granola, and something else that couldn’t have required this many dirty dishes. Maybe fresh-pressed juices, too.
This man is so high maintenance he probably only dates supermodels with a Ph.D. in dealing with bullshit.
What would he have thought if he saw my sister and me before his father pulled us out of the hovel and set us up in the lap of luxury?
When we were moving from place to place.
Squatting at Erin’s numerous boyfriends’ houses.
Or better yet, those weeks we lived in her car, which wouldn’t run even if we had the money for gas.
If he thinks I can’t handle a few dishes, he has another thing coming.
Trent Aldridge has no idea the life I have lived.
In comparison to the hell I have been through, his Michelin-star chef’s dirty dishes are a slice of pie from heaven.
Whatever he throws at me, I’m ready.