“Adult? You’re a whiny little brat. You sold Massot for nothing. You’re not your father, Tom. You’re a pale fucking imitation. No fire in the belly. No guts.”

That stung.

“Again, I will ask you not to mention my father,” Tom said flatly. “You hardly knew him. You are not qualified to comment, Judy. You’re not a member of this family.”

That last one had her screaming. Judy heard her own voice, wild and high. But she didn’t care. All she saw was Tom—looking like Pierre—casting her out, dumping her, demeaning her.

You’re not a member of this family.

“I am,” she screeched. “I am a member of your precious little family! And I always will be! There’s nothing you can do about it—nothing at all!”

She saw the look of horror and disgust on his face as the implication sank in. And she loathed him for it.

“That’s right, you piece of shit,” Judy said. “I’m pregnant. I’m carrying your goddamn baby.”

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

I have to shake this off!

Tom told himself that a thousand times an hour, it felt like, but it did no good. He’d got up in the morning and the nightmare was still there.

His baby. Judy’s baby.

Tethered for life to an older woman who his mother hated and he couldn’t stand.

He had no idea what to do.

Or what the hell he’d tell Sophie.

So, he’d try to put it off. Taking over Massot had been an utter disaster.Tom’s ideas for reviving sales had been disastrous. Nobody liked his cost-cutting in the sales room; there were mass resignations of key staff; he had no idea how to recruit; negative press was flooding in and the Brandts, the design leaders, had quit. His testing of replacements wasn’t going too well. And the accountants wanted a lot of answers. . . .

He knew he was in over his head. The shiny corner office was one thing. Knowing how to use it was another.

“Celine!” he shouted. “Could you bring me another cup of coffee?”

His secretary popped her head round the door and raised her eyebrows.

“Another, Monsieur?”

“Believe me, the jitters can’t get any worse.”

“I’ll make a decaf,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Mayberry stock was sinking. And the meltdown at Massot was a huge part of it. Tom pushed a hand through his hair, sweating. The stress was unbelievable. It was only nine thirty and already he wanted a drink.

His door opened.

“That was quick,” Tom said.

But it wasn’t Celine. And he knew instantly that this shitty day was about to get much, much worse.

“Hi, kid,” said Pete Stockton.

Stockton was as blunt as he was unpleasant. He stank of sweat, a stench that was only partially disguised by the sickly sweet smoke from his Cuban cigar.