‘What?’ With difficulty Clara fought her way past all the possibilities and emotions swirling dizzily around her brain. ‘Sorry, I just need to read this. I’ll be with you in a second.’
She noticed detachedly that her hand was shaking as she clicked on the email, the words were dancing in front of her eyes, making no sense at all. She blinked again, forcing herself to concentrate.
Dear Miss Castleton...
The opening line made her reel back, shocked by its formality, but, grimly determined, she read on.
Both Mr Byron Drewe and Mr Archibald Drewe will be visiting London the first week in May and would like to know if it is convenient for you to meet with them to discuss your daughter’s future. Her presence is not required at the meeting.
Please send me any dates and times that week that would be convenient for you to meet and I will let you know the final arrangements and venue nearer the time. Any expenses you incur will of course be covered. Please provide the relevant receipts.
On behalf Mr Drewe Jr
Her first communication in years—and it was from Byron’s secretary.
Her head was suddenly clear, the dizziness and anticipation replaced with hotly righteous anger. How dared they? How dared they dismiss Summer, summon Clara as if she were a servant? How dared they offer to pay her expenses—as long as she provided receipts like an untrustworthy employee?
Although Byron’s father had always thought she was a gold-digging good-time girl, she had just naively hoped Byron believed in her, believed in their daughter. Despite everything.
Byron had spent so much time stringing her along, promising her they would be a family, but he hadn’t even had the guts to tell his father about the baby. And once his father found out that was the end.
It was a straight choice: Clara and Summer or his family fortune. Turned out it was no choice at all.
Even then he had lied, promised he’d find a way, that he loved her, loved Summer. Her heart twisted painfully. He had just wanted her to leave quietly, to not make a scene.
Clara’s eyes locked onto the photo that sat on her otherwise clutter-free desk and the anger left just as suddenly as it had arrived. Dark hair, dark eyes, just like her father. Clara’s feelings didn’t matter here; Byron’s behaviour didn’t either. Summer was the one who counted and this was the first communication she had had from her daughter’s father in years. He wanted to meet. Maybe he wanted to be involved.
Or maybe not. But she had to try. If only she didn’t have to do it all alone. Of course her parents would come with her if she asked, but she didn’t trust them not to threaten to castrate Byron with the butter knife—or actually do it. Not that he didn’t deserve it but it wasn’t quite the reconciliation she was hoping for.
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