The Billionaire's Deadline

*Sandra*

It had to be tonight. There was no other time, and no other way.

I looked in the mirror and straightened the dress with the too-deep plunging back and too high leg slit. The too-high heels made my ankles wobble the first half hour I'd worn them, but I'd been walking around the low-cost hotel room for hours, pacing and thinking and breaking in the shoes and my ankles.

The dress was wine red and fit my slim body well. It was tight where it needed to be and had light ruching at the neckline. The dress was spaghetti-strapped, but the neckline was just high enough to hide the scar from my port. I'd had it taken out, just in case. The pity vote might get me places, but I didn't want to win that way. I needed to be strong for my company.

My cell phone rang, and soon I was walking out to a black town car. The driver was probably more than confused, seeing a woman in a pricey dress coming out to his town car in this neighborhood. But I needed to save money everywhere I could.

"The Ritz-Carlton, Central Park, please," I said to the driver, further confusing the poor man.

He was professional, though, and didn't comment other than to say, "Yes, miss."

Miss. I looked like a sixteen-year-old girl with black hair and Elizabeth Taylor eyes. That was mostly due to my disease, which left me skinny and flat-chested. Though that could also have been genetics – my mother, who'd died of the same rare bone cancer that was killing me–had had much the same build.

In truth, twenty-three wasn't exactly past the "miss" stage of life, but I'd been rather hoping to make it to "ma'am."

Pushing away my melancholy thoughts, I dug in my purse for my compact to check my make-up one last time. It was as flawless as I could make it. I was no make-up artist and wasn't going to waste the money hiring one. I hoped that hadn't been a mistake.

"You look lovely, miss," the driver said encouragingly from the front seat.

I smiled at him. "Was it that obvious?"

"You might as well be trembling like a leaf. Miss...?"

"Kingsley," I provided. "But you can call me Sandra."

"... Sandra. Whatever it is you're out to do tonight, I'm sure you'll accomplish it. You're on a mission, I can tell. And I can also tell you don't take 'no' for an answer. You're going to do fine," the driver reassured me.

"Thanks," I replied. "Mister...?"

"Just call me Ben," he said.

I smiled again. "I hope you're the one picking me up again at the end of the night."

"Sandra, you couldn't stop me," Ben grinned back. "And you'll tell me all about your success."

"I hope so," I responded, nervousness bubbling up in my belly once more as I tapped a red-lacquered nail against my teeth.

Too soon, we were in front of the Ritz-Carlton. Ben came around the side of the vehicle to help me get out. "Knock 'em dead," he said to me.

I shook his hand. "I'll see you in a few hours."

Ben nodded and got back in his car.

I realized my mistake too late.

The old and new money rich set who were entering the Ritz-Carlton were staring at me in distaste. Clearly, one did not shake hands with the town car driver.

I sighed. Fail One.

I rolled my shoulders back and walked past the onlookers, who tsked at me under their breath and murmured about me being "trash" or "brand new money."

In truth, Kingsley owned one of the largest manufacturing empires in Chicago. My father had been very successful, until the end. Now, Kingsley was secretly drowning in debt, and Father was gone, laid side-by-side with my mother in Rosehill Cemetery. He'd mourned her the rest of his life and hadn't taken one girlfriend since her death. I loved that about them. A forever kind of love.

A forever kind of love. I swallowed back tears. I was never going to have that.

The main hall of the Ritz-Carlton was impeccable, beautiful, even. I wasn't paying much attention to it, though. I had one target in mind, and this was the only place I was going to be able to find him.

At least the Kingsley name still had enough juice to get an invitation to this little soiree. Was it Save the Pandas or Save the Whales? I wasn't sure.

American Cancer Society.

My mouth went dry, and I almost walked into a column. I really should have taken more care to ask Margie, Father's old and aged assistant, what the event was for. I recalled her even trying to tell me. Poor dear was probably lamenting right now that she hadn't been able to protect me from this. I'd have to get her a cheesecake before I went home.

"Need a drink, Miss...?" an obese, older gentleman with wispy gray hair asked me.

"Kingsley," I said without thinking.

"Of the Chicago Kingsleys?" the older gentleman inferred.

I blushed. "Yes, sir. Sorry, can we keep that quiet? I was hoping to just have a lovely even-"

"I was so sorry to hear about your father. What has it been? Less than a month, I think..." the older gentleman mused, handing me a glass of champagne.

With a polite smile, I took it but didn't drink. God only knew what it would do when combined with the myriad of meds I was taking. "Three weeks."

"Three weeks. Was he keeping you at home, then? Smart man. If I had a daughter who looked like you, I'd be keeping her at home as well," the gentleman chortled.

"Oh, um. Thank you..." Then I spotted him. Tall, blond, blue-eyed, Adonis of a man who graced the covers of magazines everywhere. The figurehead for his family's corporation. Old money.

Blake Harrington.

"I'm sorry, I really need–" I began.

"I'm Hubert Drake," Hubert introduced himself. "And do, please, tell your new CEO that I'd love to talk business with him."

That struck a chord, and I could feel my lips turn down in a sour expression. "Sir, I am the new President and CEO of Kingsley Manufacturing."

"Oh!" Hubert said. Then he had the audacity to laugh at me! "A pretty little thing like you? Nonsense. You get yourself a real CEO, and let the boys talk."

I shoved my champagne glass back into Hubert's hand. "Excuse me," I snapped, not caring if I was being rude. "I have an appointment."

Hubert's brow furrowed. "At a benefit?"

"Business never sleeps," I responded with false sweetness. Then I booked it as fast as I could in my blasted heels to the last place I'd seen Harrington.

***

*Blake*

God, this was boring. One of the most boring benefits I'd ever been to. And didn't the American Cancer Society have enough money already? All they ever did was walks and benefits and fund drives.

Still, it was a pet cause of my mother's, and I thought she might have blown her top if I hadn't gone.

I took a sip of champagne and sighed, wishing for something stronger.

Maybe Mother would forgive me if I left early.

I looked over to see the grand dame of all things cancer-related in her sparkling, peacock-patterned dress and thick, matching headband, and she gave me a sharp look, as though she'd read my mind.

All right, no leaving early, then.

I walked out onto the terrace to get some air and have a smoke. Just as I was putting a cigarillo to my lips to light up, a faerie appeared on the terrace.

I stopped, pulling the cigarillo from my lips. "Miss?" I asked, wondering where the girl's parents were.

"Mr. Harrington," the fey creature with glowing pale skin, long blue-black hair, and piercing – dear God, were those lavender?! – eyes stormed up to me in a burgundy dress I would never have let my own daughter leave the house in. "I have come here all the way from Chicago to talk business, and I don't have a lot of time. Your assistant keeps putting off my phone calls and talking about making an appointment in six months. Frankly, sir, I do not have six months to wait twiddling my thumbs."

I blinked, my brain ticking over the many messages my assistant kept giving me and landing on one persistent caller. "Miss Kingsley?"

"Yes, Mr. Harrington, I am Sandra Kingsley," Sandra said, crossing her arms and glaring at me.

I had to say, I rather liked that glare. She would be fun to wind up, I could tell. "This is rather unorthodox..."

"You couldn't seem to fit me into your busy schedule while I was in town, so I made a few calls and decided to meet –"

"Confront," I corrected.

"Meet you here," Sandra said stubbornly. "I need to discuss business with you."

I considered her for a moment. She was beautiful, and entertaining, and I rather admired her hutzpah. On the other hand, she was interrupting a very important... boring... event.

"Alright," I replied, deciding I might as well get dinner and a show while I was here. "What is it you wish to discuss?"

"I'm sure it's starting to get out that Kingsley is..." Sandra cast about for the right words.

"Not doing so well these days? Drowning in debt?" I suggested quietly. Not everyone knew, but as Sandra had been calling and calling me, I did have my assistant make a few inquiries.

Sandra's shoulders hunched, and she looked around to see if anyone had heard. But it was just us out on the terrace. "Yes," she whispered. "My father... had dementia toward the end. He made some poor business decisions. But our people, our products, and our infrastructure are still top notch. We've always been at the cutting edge of the industry, and we can be again, we just need..."

"A little infusion of capital?" I said.

Sandra sighed and nodded. "I didn't come to New York with my hat in my hand, Mr. Harrington."

"Blake, please," I interrupted.

"B-Blake," Sandra stuttered. Then she rallied, and though slight and small, I knew she was a force to be reckoned with. "I have a proposal that will allow you to take over Kingsley Manufacturing within six months."

My eyebrows must have hit my hairline because she quickly continued, "I'd give it to you now, only I don't want you to take it at a loss, and I don't want the government taking their chunk along with the debt Kingsley already has..."

"So... there's some time in the future you're going to be able to give me the company when the government isn't going to take their share, and you won't be in debt?" I asked, incredulous.

"No." Sandra took another deep breath. "The company will be in debt. But I'm not asking you to buy it from me. I want you to take it, provided you can keep my employees in their jobs."

Now, I was pretty sure this little elf had lost her damn mind. Maybe dementia ran in the family? "Miss Kingsley..."

"Sandra."

"Sandra, I don't think there's a way for you to give your company to me with all those terms met," I said slowly. "I mean, the transfer of assets alone is going to cost-"

"It won't cost anything," Sandra replied.

"Oh? And how's that?" I asked.

"Because you're going to marry me," Sandra said.

*Sandra*

I'd expected many different reactions to my proposal. Anger, insult, incredulity. But I hadn't expected laughter.

Blake Harrington of Harrington Corporation let out a long, loud laugh.

"You... you can't be serious," he gasped between bouts.

I knew I wasn't much to look at, but his reaction was insulting. "I'm dead serious," I replied flatly, a bit proud of my private joke. I was dead. And I was serious.

"Oh... oh wow. Oh, I needed this tonight. Thank you," Blake laughed, putting a hand on my shoulder.

Right over my port scar.

I flinched, since it was still raw.

Blake frowned and took his hand away. He searched my eyes. "You are actually serious."

"Yes. I believe a marriage of six months will be sufficient for a transfer of assets without government interference," I said primly.

"Just six months." Blake's lips twitched. He was trying not to laugh again.

At least he hadn't walked off and was taking me somewhat seriously now. "Yes, just six months."

"And after six months, you what, walk away with nothing? Or do you expect me to buy you out?" Blake asked.

"I do not want or need anything from you, Mr. Harrington-" I began.

"Blake."

"... Blake. I only need the company to survive. In order for that to happen, yes, it needs an infusion of capital. And..." This was the most humiliating part. "And a figurehead that doesn't look like a sixteen-year-old."

Blake raised an eyebrow. "You're eighteen, I suppose?"

"Twenty-three," I said quietly.

"T-Twenty–" Blake's gaze raked over me. "Ye Gods, you look like a thirteen-year-old with very permissive parents."

I shrugged. It hurt. "I'm offering these terms in good faith. My only condition is that you keep on the workers we have after."

"After the divorce," Blake nodded. "So you've said. "Do you have some particular attachment to them?"

I blinked at Blake. "Of course. They're my workers."

"You know them personally?" Blake asked, incredulous.

I squared my shoulders. "Yes. And I'm sorry for you that you don't know yours. My father brought me to the floors of several of his factories. They work for me. They're family, and I owe them a good life, since they gave my family a good life."

Blake just stared at me.

This was a mistake. If he lacked basic compassion, there was no way I was going to let him lead my company. "Nevermind. Let's just call this a misunderstanding." I turned on my very high heel and started away.

Blake grabbed my arm, almost toppling me. He caught me in surprisingly strong arms. Broad-chested, handsome. He'd probably been on a rowing team or something at a fancy college.

"Woah, there. Where are you going? I haven't even given you an answer yet," Blake said, holding me tightly and grinning.

I scowled at him. "Your incredulity is answer enough. I have to say I'm disappointed. You were at the top of my list. I guess I now have to work my way down."

Blake frowned. I guessed he wasn't used to people saying they were disappointed in him. He was probably the perfect, golden child and apple of his mother's eye.

Dahlia Harrington, the great philanthropist herself, was looking out at us on the balcony right now, her eyes narrowed.

"I need to go. I don't have any more time to waste on you. I'm sorry," I said, struggling to free myself. I was weak from my ineffective chemo, so, there was really no getting away.

"You hound my office for months, and this is it? Really?" Blake scoffed. "Just because I'm not as connected with the little people as you seem to be?"

I glared up at him. "The 'little people' are who make your business successful. You'd do well to remember that."

"Blake, let the young lady go," a cold voice came from behind me.

I was immediately released and was just swaying to get my balance when a kind hand reached out to steady me.

Dahlia Harrington smiled beatifically at me. "There now. What seems to be the trouble?"

"Well, this... intriguing... young woman just proposed to me. Then rejected me in the same breath," Blake snorted.

Dahlia glanced at my shoulder, where my port scar was under the dress, then back into my eyes. "Sandra. Sandra Kingsley."

"Yes," I replied cautiously.

"I knew your mother. She was the most kind and compassionate creature who ever lived," Dahlia said.

I blinked away tears. Her loss still hurt, especially this close to my father's passing. "Thank you. I thought so, too."

"Your father thought the world of her," Dahlia continued. She shot a glare at Blake, who actually took a startled step back. "I can't believe it took you the span of a whole breath to deem him unworthy of your time."

"Mother!" Blake gaped.

"Hush. I always knew the second you met a truly worthy woman you'd find some way to screw it up. I should have put money on it. Your father said it would take at least three months to push her away. I would have won at three minutes," Dahlia sniffed. She placed a hand on my arm. "Let's take a turn around the room, as they say. You can tell me what's brought you all this way."

I bit my lip. "I... actually don't have a lot of time..."

"Walk with me," Dahlia insisted.

I gave in and began walking with her around the perimeter of the ballroom, leaving a stunned Blake in our wake.

"How long do you have, Sandra?" Dahlia asked quietly.

After the surprise wore off, I decided I liked her. Direct. To the point. "About six months," I answered. "Treatments aren't working anymore."

"I'm sorry." Dahlia's regret was sincere, and I had to swallow against a lump in my throat.

"Yes, well, I've made peace with it," I responded. "I was... just here..."

"To propose to my son," Dahlia said.

I sighed. "Yes. Stupid of me. But if his assistant hadn't kept deflecting me, I wouldn't have come at all. One conversation would have been sufficient to know it would be a waste of my time."

"Kingsley was always very close to his workers. I was sorry to hear of his passing," Dahlia replied. "I suppose that's why you're here – to secure the futures of your workers?"

"Yes, ma'am," I stated. "I have no heirs and no reason to take Kingsley Manufacturing to the grave with me. I thought being able to get around tax penalties and regulatory commissions might be enticement enough..."

"It is. And you did not come here in vain. Your terms are simply that the workers not be laid off?" Dahlia asked.

I frowned slightly at her. "Yes, but, how did you know I was going to the Baron family next?"

"I didn't. Forget the Barons," Dahlia said, shaking her head emphatically. "Blake will marry you. And I will personally ensure that your workers are always taken care of."

I stopped dead in shock. "W-What? Really?!"

"Absolutely. It's a sound business decision, regardless of Kingsley's debts. The infrastructure is solid, and your staff works hard." Dahlia looked up at me sadly. "I also understand about wanting to leave a legacy."

"Please..." I said with a swallow. "Don't pity me."

"I don't. I admire you." Dahlia patted my arm. "Now, you go and get some rest. I'm going to tell my son the good news. I'm sure he has your number."

I took a deep breath. "Don't tell him I'm dying."

Dahlia snorted. "He'd have to be worthy of that information first. Don't worry. I will handle everything. You go back to your room."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her I was staying across town, but I just smiled instead. "Thank you, Mrs. Harrington."

"Dahlia. You're going to be my daughter, after all." Dahlia patted my arm. "Go on now."

I left the ballroom with more of a spring in my step. Blake Harrington might be a jerk, but his mother was more than I could ever have hoped for.

***

*Blake*

I paced the balcony, trying to shake Sandra Kingsley out of my mind. She wasn't my type at all. Black hair, skinny... beautiful, of course, but just not my type. I preferred the standard blonde, buxom, and bubble-headed.

Sandra was sharp, focused. Smart. Her skin was soft and pale, her lips a contrasting deep rose. With the black cascading hair, she could have been Snow White.

And those eyes...

Her nature was far from demure, however. In fact, I was still feeling the sting of her rejection. Who was she to reject me? Her company was drowning in debt, and she was throwing herself at men just to get it solvent.

Throwing herself at men.

My grip tightened on the stem of my champagne flute. Something in me, something primal, did not like the idea of that startling, fey creature marrying some tubby fifty-six-year-old oil baron just to save her workers.

She'd deemed me unworthy. Me.

I was the goddamn catch of the century!

"Ahem." My mother brought me out of my thoughts.

"What?" I asked, a bit more snappish than I'd intended. Or maybe not. She'd agreed with Sandra Kingsley that I was unworthy, after all.

"Despite your screw up," my mother began, . "I have managed to secure the deal you were so thoughtlessly going to toss aside."She never sugar-coated, nor did she beat around the bush.

Secure the...? "What? With Sandra?" I asked, confused.

"Yes. You will be married next week. Congratulations." My mother turned to leave as though that was all there was to it.

"Wait, you... you what?!" I stuttered. "What?!"

My mother looked at me. "You heard me. We'll work out the details later. I have to inform your father and get a wedding planner. Oh, and you have my permission to leave now. I'm sure that's what you've been waiting to hear all night."

"Mother, you can't just–!" I protested.

"I just did. I'm sure your father will agree with me. Six months is hardly a sacrifice for what she's offering." My mother lifted her stubborn chin, and I knew I was going to be the loser in this conversation. "Suck it up."

"I... but... what... you don't believe in divorce!" I accused. "You've said it every time I tried to bring..."

"One of your bimbos home? Yes. Quite. But this is a woman of quality, and I'm rather hoping you'll learn what you have and try to hang onto it before it's too late," my mother said.

There was something in her eyes, something flinty yet... sad. "Mother?" I touched her arm.

My mother shook her head. "Go home," she said. "And this time, call Sandra. I'm sure your assistant has her number."

"But..."

I was left with my mouth hanging open as my mother simply walked away. I shook my head in disbelief.

What the hell was going on?!

*Sandra*

"Mr. Harrington will see you now." Ashley, the assistant who had deflected me so skillfully these last few weeks, gave me a tight smile. She wasn't any happier to see me than I was to see her.

"Thank you," I replied with a polite smile of my own. I'd often thought of strangling this woman with her hair extensions, but she wasn't that kind of assistant at all. Her hair was clipped short to her head in a kind of 1920s bob. She was possibly in her forties, and she had on a white blouse and black pencil skirt, much like mine.

This time, I'd only been kept waiting ten minutes.

I smoothed my hands over my own lilac blouse and stepped through the frosted glass doors into Blake's office.

Blake was on the phone and held up one finger to stop me from saying anything. He gestured for me to sit instead and turned around to face the window.

"Yes. All the shares that are being sold. I mean it. I know it's tanking, but it won't be for long," Blake was saying to whoever was on the other end of the line. "I'm taking full advantage of the situation. That stock's going to go up just as soon as I get a handle on what's going on at Kingsley. I know it's a gamble, but I'm willing to bank on myself. Thanks, Todd. Tell the wife I say, 'Hi.'"

Blake disconnected the call and put his cell phone on the desk. "So," he said. "You're going to be my wife for six months." He didn't sound at all happy about it.

"So your mother tells me," I replied just as icily.

"Regretting it already?" Blake smirked.

I shrugged. "I did have other options. But I like your mother. You're the one who's an ass."

"This engagement is off to a great start already," Blake chuckled. "So, we're going to have to do all the fanfare. Press, charity appearances, the party circuit, all of it. And I am going to have to put a big ass ring on your finger."

"You can have it back when the time comes," I said.

Blake snorted. "I hope so. Mother insisted I give you the family ring."

That threw me. "Pardon?"

"Here." Blake slid a blue velvet ring box across the table.

I regarded it with trepidation.

"It's not going to bite you," Blake laughed. "Open it."

I reached out and opened the box. Nestled in white satin was a beautiful, large asscher-cut sapphire surrounded by diamonds. The stones were set in white gold.

There was something inscribed in the gold. I frowned and pulled the ring out to look closer.

"'Forever My Love,'" Blake quoted as I looked at the words myself.

I shoved the ring back into the box and snapped the lid shut. I slid the box back to Blake. "No. No, I couldn't possibly."

"Not your style? You wanted some rapper-sized big damn diamond?" Blake scoffed.

"No," I replied evenly. "I don't want to sully something so precious with a fake marriage."

Blake's eyes widened in surprise. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, if you're not wearing it, everyone will ask why."

I wanted to argue. I really didn't want to put the karma of lies on something so precious. But I was tired. Getting ready for the benefit, and going to it, had taken a lot out of me, and I just didn't have the energy to debate with Blake Harrington, top negotiator, right now.

"Fine," I conceded. I took the box back and started to put it in my pocket.

Blake laughed again. "Traditionally, it goes on your finger."

"Oh. Right." I put the box back on the desk and opened it. I picked up the ring and looked at its inscription for a long moment. Tears pricked my eyes. There was no love, or a forever, for me.

"Are you okay?" Blake asked, suddenly concerned.

"Fine. Eyelash," I invented quickly. I made a show of rubbing an eyelash out of my eye, then I slid the ring onto my left hand.

It fit perfectly.

I stared in disbelief. "How did you know my size?"

"My mother did," Blake said. "I guess she and your mother went jewelry shopping together sometimes. Mother thought you would have the same size finger as your mother."

"Good guess," I said quietly.

"Yeah." Blake's shoes squeaked as he rocked back and forth. "That's all I had for you. I'll pick you up for dinner tonight. There should be plenty of press."

I stood and nodded. "Good."

"See you at seven," Blake informed me.

I thought of the run-down hotel where I was staying and said, "How about I meet you there?"

"Sandra. I'm picking you up," Blake replied firmly.

"But... you don't know my address," I tried.

"You're staying at the Radisson." Blake's phone began to ring.

"But, I'm not–" I began to explain.

Blake held up his finger again. "James! How's it hangin' buddy? Listen, about that yachting party. I'm bringing a guest. Yeah, a girl. Who? No, not Emily. No, not Margot. Jesus, James, what would even make you think of Bridget? She was two years ago!"

I crossed my arms, waiting with a clenched jaw. Asshole.

"Nah, man. I'm bringing Sandra Kingsley. Yeah, those Kingsleys. What do you mean 'why'? You don't think she's pretty enough?" Blake chuckled. Then his laughter dried up, and he dropped his voice to almost a whisper.

I could still hear him, though.

"No," Blake said. "I'm not all about blondes and boobs. Kelly was a redhead. How do you even know what Sandra looks like? Oh. Yeah. That stupid cancer benefit. What a yawn-fest that was."

Shaking now with rage, I took off the ring and slapped it down on his desk.

Blake's brow furrowed. "Just a sec, James." He put his phone down to his chest and mouthed, 'What the FUCK are you doing?!'

"Ask your mother," I snapped. I turned on my heel and left.

*Blake*

"Sorry, man, I've gotta go." I shoved my phone in my jacket pocket, then took off after Sandra.

I caught her just at the elevators. "Hey," I asked, grabbing her arm. "What gives?"

Sandra looked down at my hand as though it were trash. As though I were trash. "Let me go."

"Look, we can get you a different ring. It's not that big a deal," I said.

Her voice dripping venom, Sandra informed me, "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on Earth, you selfish, arrogant sonofabitch!" She tore her arm away and stepped on the elevator just as the doors opened.

Oh hell no. She wasn't getting away with this. Not when I'd spent this much time and effort already laying the groundwork. "Sandra Kingsley, you get your ass–"

Sandra flipped me off and stabbed the door close button.

I was still reeling from her rude gesture when the doors closed.

"Fuck," I muttered. I walked back to my office. "Ashley, call Sandra Kingsley until she answers. Every five seconds if you have to."

"Sir?" Ashley replied, shocked.

I never put that kind of effort into getting a hold of anyone. But Sandra Kingsley, with her judgmental eyes and haughty attitude had somehow gotten under my skin.

If nothing else, I wanted the opportunity to give her a good telling off. However, I had put a lot of effort into a merger that had seemed guaranteed.

Now, it was all falling apart.

What the fuck had I done wrong? It was Sandra who came up with the crazy idea in the first place!

"Sir?" Ashley asked again.

"Just do it," I said flatly.

Ashley nodded. "Yes, sir."

I went back into my office and glared at the ring on the desk as though it were responsible for the whole situation. It wasn't as though I wanted to get married.

My phone went off in my pocket. "Larry, hello!" I turned the charm back on. Just because one deal was going bad didn't mean you gave up on all the others. "I was looking at the contract for the new building and there are just a few tweaks I want to make..."

The afternoon was occupied that way. I worked hard, as usual, and anticipated working late. I frowned at Ashley whose silhouette was visible just beyond the office door. I could hear her calling. And calling. And calling. Ashley's voice was even getting hoarse.

Finally, just as Ashley was about to call out again, her phone rang.

"Transfer it in here, Ashley," I said over the comm.

"Sir, it's not her," Ashley replied.

"Then who the fuck is it?" I demanded.

"Sir, it's your mother." Ashley sounded weary.

I paused. I looked at my cell phone and saw I'd missed some calls from her. Six, to be exact.

"Mr. Harrington, she's insisting–" Ashley began.

"Send her through, Ashley. And you can stop calling Miss Kingsley. For today."

Ashley sounded infinitely relieved. "Thank you, sir."

A moment later, my office phone rang. I picked it up. "Mother, I'm sorry, it's been a busy day–"

"What," my mother interrupted me with darkness in her tone, "did you do?"

"Is this about Sandra?" I asked.

"No. It's about the Pope. Of course this is about Sandra!" my mother shouted.

I held the phone away from my ear. "I don't know, Mother. I honestly don't. Maybe she got offended when I was talking to James, and he was rattling off names and descriptions of my past girlfriends. I can't help that I've never dated a more flat-chested girl before. I don't think there's anything wrong with the way Sandra looks... and honestly I didn't think she'd care about any past lovers of mine. We're not getting married for real."

"I can imagine your conversation with James was very enlightening," my mother seethed. "But I doubt she cared that much. She already knew you were a womanizer and an asshole."

"Gee, thanks, Mother," I replied sarcastically.

"She was willing to put up with all that for the sake of her workers," my mother continued. "You did something. You said something."

I raked my hand through my hair. "Mother. James and I were just talking about that stupid benefit."

I felt a chill in the silence on the other end of the line. "Which benefit?" my mother asked.

"I don't know, the cancer one," I said.

"The other night, when you met Sandra. The benefit for the American Cancer Society?" My mother filled in the blanks for me.

"Yes, that one," I responded.

More cold silence. "Did you say that?"

"Say what?" I echoed.

"Did you say that it was stupid?" my mother demanded.

I cast about for the right words. Mother did like her causes. "I... um..."

"Did you?!" my mother yelled.

"I just called it a yawn-fest. That's all," I finally admitted.

My mother swore. She never swore. But she was swearing at me now.

"Mother!" I said, my jaw slack.

"You insensitive cretin." My mother finally focused her insults back on me. "How did I raise such a son? God help me."

"It was a yawn-fest," I defended myself. "The only interesting thing that happened was Sandra proposing to me."

"Well, that's just the icing on the cake, then," my mother snapped.

I was starting to get a little pissed off about her attitude. "Listen. I made all the calls. I bought all the stock. I was all in on this thing, even though I wanted nothing to do with her. Then she almost throws your ring at me and marches off."

"Because you called the night you met her a real yawn-fest?" my mother asked with false sweetness. "Heavens, how could she be angry about that."

Fuck me. I was an idiot. "I'll fix it, Mother."

"No, I will fix it. You will do whatever it is you do that keeps getting us the billions that we're going to use to revive Kingsley Manufacturing. You've done quite enough," My mother growled.

"I'm sorry, okay? I was an asshole and I'll apologize," I responded. "Just let me handle it."

"She won't talk to you," my mother scoffed.

"Why not?" I asked, exasperated. "It was one slip of the tongue–"

My mother sighed heavily. "Blake, I love you, but you really are an idiot sometimes."

"What? What else did I do?" I replied.

"Blake, my lovely, idiot son. Sandra's mother died of cancer."

I almost dropped the phone. "What?!"

"I will fix it. You stay out of it, for now. And contemplate every possible meaning of the words, 'I'm sorry,'" my mother said.

I swallowed. Jesus. "Okay, Mother. I'll let you fix it."

"Good."

"And Mother?" I played with a pen on my desk.

"Yes?" my mother responded.

"I am sorry."