Chapter 3 - CHRISTMAS IN A HOTEL THEY NEVER PLANNED TO SHARE
The last available hotel suite near Boise Airport cost more for one night than Cassandra earned in a week.
Damon paid without asking.
Cassandra objected anyway.
“I’ll reimburse you.”
“No.”
“I’m not taking money from you.”
“It’s a hotel room, not a hostile takeover.”
“With you, I’m not sure there’s a difference.”
The desk clerk pretended not to listen.
Damon accepted two key cards.
“The suite has two bedrooms.”
“I’ll take one with the children.”
“And I’ll take the other.”
“You’re staying?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Cassandra.”
“You have money. Find another hotel.”
“There isn’t another hotel.”
“You own a jet.”
“It’s grounded in Seattle.”
“Buy another one.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then Luke tugged Cassandra’s coat.
“Mama, I’m tired.”
That ended the argument.
The suite was decorated with artificial pine garland and a tiny Christmas tree near the window.
Snow struck the glass.
The twins immediately discovered a bowl of wrapped chocolates.
Cassandra confiscated them before disaster.
Damon stood awkwardly near the entrance.
He had commanded rooms filled with investors.
He had never looked less certain of where he belonged.
“Do they need anything?”
Cassandra removed Violet’s boots.
“They need sleep.”
“I mean generally.”
She looked at him.
“Generally?”
“Food. Clothes. Medicine. College accounts.”
“Damon, you found out they existed three hours ago.”
“And?”
“And you cannot solve fatherhood with a wire transfer.”
His mouth tightened.
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“It’s what you know.”
That landed.
She saw it.
He took off his coat.
“I deserve that.”
Cassandra paused.
Old Damon would have defended himself.
Old Damon would have argued until they both said something unforgivable.
This Damon looked tired.
Not physically.
Deeply.
Violet walked over with Walter.
“Can you fix his ear?”
Damon looked down.
The elephant’s left ear had torn away from the seam.
“I don’t know how.”
“You’re grown up.”
“That is not the same as being qualified.”
Violet considered this unacceptable.
Cassandra found the emergency sewing kit in her bag.
“You can try.”
Damon looked at her.
She handed it over.
Ten minutes later, the billionaire CEO sat cross-legged on the hotel carpet attempting to sew a stuffed elephant.
He stabbed his finger twice.
Violet supervised.
Luke climbed onto his back.
Cassandra stood in the doorway, unable to reconcile what she saw with the man she remembered.
Damon had always wanted children.
Before ambition swallowed their marriage, they had talked about names.
He wanted two.
She wanted three.
He had once drawn ridiculous plans for a tree house their hypothetical children would have even if they lived in an apartment.
Then life had hardened them.
Or maybe other people had helped.
After the twins slept, Cassandra found Damon sitting beside the hotel window.
His phone displayed hundreds of unread messages.
He ignored them.
She poured coffee.
“Julian called?”
“Eleven times.”
“And?”
“I haven’t answered.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what I’ll say without telling him what I know.”
“You don’t know anything yet.”
“I know he signed for your letter.”
“He could have forgotten.”
“No.”
The certainty unsettled her.
“How can you know?”
“Because Julian Cross remembers everything that benefits him.”
Damon turned his phone around.
An archived corporate security email showed mailroom procedures from three years earlier.
“All executive certified mail was scanned into the digital registry.”
“So?”
“So IT is restoring the backups.”
“On Christmas Eve?”
“I own the company.”
“There he is.”
“Who?”
“The man who thinks ownership is a personality.”
Again, the smallest hint of a smile.
Then it disappeared.
“I looked for you.”
Cassandra’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug.
“What?”
“After I left.”
She stared at him.
“I called your hospital.”
“I never got a message.”
“I sent flowers.”
“I never got flowers.”
“I drove to your apartment six weeks later.”
Her breath caught.
“No.”
“You were gone.”
“I moved in with my sister because I was pregnant and sick.”
“Your landlord told me you left no forwarding address.”
“I did.”
Damon leaned forward.
“I wrote you seven letters.”
Cassandra actually laughed.
“Seven?”
“Yes.”
“I received divorce papers.”
His eyes hardened.
“I never asked Julian’s attorney to file those when he did.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told him to prepare separation documents because you had stopped responding. I specifically said not to file until I spoke with you.”
Cassandra felt cold.
“The petition listed abandonment.”
“I never approved that language.”
“My attorney told me you claimed I refused to move for your career.”
“I never said that.”
“But you believed it.”
Damon looked down.
“I believed you were done with me.”
“And I believed you were done with us.”
He leaned back.
Three years of pain sat between them.
“How did we let strangers speak for us?” he asked.
“Because we were angry.”
“And proud.”
“And stupid.”
He nodded.
“Very.”
Cassandra looked toward the bedroom where their children slept.
“I called you after the pregnancy test.”
“My number changed when Julian transferred me to corporate security.”
“I emailed.”
“My old address was forwarded to executive administration.”
“Julian?”
“Yes.”
Her stomach turned.
“So everything went through him.”
“Almost everything.”
“Why?”
Damon’s face hardened.
“At the time, Prescott Systems had one product and eleven months of cash. Julian had just convinced Northlake Capital to invest twenty-five million dollars.”
“What does that have to do with our marriage?”
“I don’t know yet.”
His phone vibrated.
A message.
He opened it.
IT RESTORE COMPLETE. CERTIFIED MAIL INDEX ATTACHED.
Damon stood so fast the chair moved.
Cassandra came beside him.
The spreadsheet loaded.
Thousands of entries.
He searched her name.
Nothing.
Then searched the delivery date Cassandra remembered.
One line appeared.
FROM: CASSANDRA PRESCOTT.
RECIPIENT: DAMON PRESCOTT.
SIGNATORY: JULIAN CROSS.
STATUS: EXECUTIVE HOLD.
Damon’s face went still.
“What does executive hold mean?” Cassandra asked.
“It means the recipient never received it.”
Her breathing became shallow.
“Who can place a hold?”
“Chairman. General counsel. Chief security officer.”
“And Julian was chairman.”
“Yes.”
She covered her mouth.
Proof.
Not complete proof.
But enough to make three years feel suddenly criminal.
Damon called his chief security officer.
“Find the physical archive.”
“Mr. Prescott, the administrative files from that year were moved when we relocated headquarters.”
“Where?”
“A storage facility outside Seattle.”
“Send someone.”
“It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Double their holiday pay.”
Cassandra looked at him.
“That will make them much happier about missing Christmas.”
He paused.
Then corrected himself.
“Ask for volunteers. Ten times holiday pay.”
She almost smiled.
There was still humanity buried under the billionaire.
An hour later, while the twins slept, Damon’s chief security officer called.
“We found the mail archive.”
Damon put the phone on speaker.
“And?”
“There’s a problem.”
“What?”
“The envelope from Cassandra Prescott is listed in the box inventory.”
Cassandra’s pulse raced.
“But the envelope isn’t there.”
Damon’s jaw hardened.
“Was it removed?”
“Looks that way.”
“By whom?”
“We’re checking access records.”
A pause.
Then:
“Sir, there’s something else.”
“What?”
“The storage box contains copies of correspondence from your separation.”
Damon and Cassandra looked at each other.
“Anything from me?” Cassandra asked.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Four emails printed and filed.”
Cassandra went pale.
“I sent more than four.”
The security officer continued.
“And there are handwritten notes from Chairman Cross.”
Damon’s voice turned cold.
“Read one.”
Paper rustled through the phone.
Then the man read:
Damon cannot afford instability before the Northlake close. Keep Cassandra out of direct communication until financing is secured.
Nobody spoke.
The security officer continued.
“There’s another note.”
“Read it.”
If wife becomes pregnant or attempts reconciliation, route through legal. No personal contact.
Cassandra stopped breathing.
Damon’s face transformed.
He did not shout.
That would have been easier.
He looked like a man whose rage had gone so deep it became ice.
Cassandra whispered, “He knew.”
Damon stared at the phone.
“He planned for it.”
Then a noise came from the bedroom.
Violet was crying.
Cassandra immediately moved.
Damon remained standing beside the Christmas tree.
In every business profile ever written about him, Julian Cross had been called Damon Prescott’s greatest mentor.
May you like
By midnight on Christmas Eve, Damon knew another word fit better.
Thief.
