FACE TO FACE WITH THE ENEMY (II)

“Your brother isn’t a good match for anyone,” he said, his voice trembling but defiant.

“You’re not in a position to choose,” I shot back.

“Jorel Clifford is a drunk, a gambler, and a womanizer.”

That caught me off guard. A gambler? I didn’t know that about Jorel. When did I have time to keep up with gossip? My life was far too busy to babysit my brother.

“From what I hear, Olivia was born from your affair with one of those women of questionable character,” I said, my words cutting.

“You have no right to speak to me like that,” he snapped.

“Oh, I have every right,” I said coldly. “Your house belongs to me. Your company belongs to me. The car you drive belongs to me. You belong to me. And soon, your daughter will too.”

“Mr. Clifford, can we discuss my daughter Rita instead?” Ernest said, finally caving and making a counteroffer.

“No,” I replied flatly. “I have no interest in Rita Abertton as a wife for Jorel.”

His breathing grew heavy, labored. If he keeled over right then, I’d drag him back from death itself, no matter the cost. He wasn’t allowed to die—not until he’d paid for every tear I’d shed, every wound he’d inflicted, every scream I’d let out into the void, searching for answers that didn’t exist.

“Mr. Clifford, I don’t understand what you really want,” he said, his voice faltering.

“Haven’t I made it clear enough?” I said, leaning forward. “I want your daughter Olivia to marry my brother Jorel.”

“With all due respect, Olivia is an extraordinary girl,” he said. “Your brother… he’ll make her suffer.”

I couldn’t hold back a laugh. This dinner was turning out to be surprisingly entertaining. I’d braced myself for the pain of facing this man for the first time, expecting it to rip me apart like it had in the past. But no—this was too easy. Crushing him, watching him squirm, was almost disappointingly simple. It wasn’t as amusing as I’d hoped because it was happening too fast.

“I work with objectives, Mr. Abertton,” I said, standing. “And this one’s already in motion.” I walked back to where he’d left his family and took a seat at their table.

“Good evening, everyone. I’m Gabe Clifford,” I announced.

As soon as I sat, the maître handed me the menu first.

“I’m Rita Abertton,” the eldest daughter said, introducing herself. I barely glanced at her, more focused on what I’d order for dinner.

“Mr. Clifford, did you manage to strike a deal with my husband?” Rose asked, her shrill voice intruding where it wasn’t welcome.

“I believe so,” I said, glancing at Ernest, who sat at the table, pale and speechless, utterly unraveling.

“My sister Olivia has a picture of your brother,” the teenage wannabe said, addressing me directly. “It’s in her room.”

“Is your sister a dreamer?” I asked, my sarcasm dripping.

“She’s just a girl with good taste,” she replied, winking as she sipped from her water glass.

I noticed they hadn’t ordered yet.

“I’ll have Chipperbec potatoes with Dom Pérignon champagne and Ardenne French vinegar, fried in goose fat, seasoned with French truffle salt and Italian truffle shavings, and pecorino cheese,” I said to the maître. “Swap the house sauce for Mornay with Swiss cheese. For dessert, an Italian cassata flavored with Bailey’s liqueur, with mango and pomegranate compote, built on a zabaglione base. As for the drink… bring the best you have in the house. We’re celebrating, aren’t we, Mr. Abertton?”

The women at the table began placing their orders. I waited until they were done, then called the maître back to add another dish from the menu.

“You eat a lot,” the teenage wannabe remarked, drawing my attention. “I don’t know how you stay so thin.”

“I haven’t eaten yet,” I said, locking eyes with her. She held my gaze, chin up, defiant. Brat.

“My sister can’t eat much,” she continued. “She has type 1 diabetes. Does your brother Jorel eat as much as you?”

Was she seriously asking me how much Jorel ate? I hadn’t seen Jorel eat in at least five years. We lived separate lives, only crossing paths once a month when he came to Clifford headquarters to pick up his allowance. I didn’t even know if he had allergies. Nor did I care to.

“Jorel prefers to… consume things other than food,” I said, unable to resist. Rose shot me a disapproving look.

“So, Mr. Abertton,” I said, turning to him. “Do we have a deal?”

“No, Mr. Clifford,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I’m afraid we don’t.”

“What do you mean you didn’t agree to a deal?” Rose snapped, her dissatisfaction with her husband obvious.

I waited for the food to arrive, half-listening to the teenage wannabe prattle on. The good thing was that the aspiring model couldn’t get a word in edgewise because the younger one wouldn’t shut up. It dawned on me that it didn’t take much for Olivia to be her father’s favorite—her sisters were insufferable and obnoxious.

Ernest Abertton, owner of the failing Abertton highway concession, was as pale as the napkin in front of him. I’d bought out all his competitors and invested heavily to ensure he couldn’t keep up. He’d taken out multiple loans to finish projects, trying to dig himself out of the red to bid on new contracts. Now, he couldn’t even pay his employees, who were showing up at his company with threats. And yes, I’d bought every bank he was indebted to, structuring contracts with terms so financially crippling he’d never climb out. In the end, Ernest owed more than he could ever repay in his lifetime. Honestly, I had no idea how he was still keeping his family fed.

When the food arrived, I took a bite and looked at Ernest. “Your final answer is no?”

“My final answer is no,” he confirmed, his voice wavering.

I stood, loosening my tie slightly, feeling the weight of being near this monstrous man pressing against my chest. “Then face the consequences of your decision, Mr. Abertton.”

I left without a goodbye. Before exiting, I stopped by the maître. “The bill will be covered by Mr. Abertton. I don’t usually do this, but he insisted.”

I didn’t owe a lowly maître an explanation, but I wanted it clear that Ernest would foot the bill. To me, the cost of the evening was pocket change, the kind of tip I’d leave a good waiter in a Dubai restaurant. But I knew Abertton would sweat bullets when he saw the total. The loss would be his, not mine. I was certain he’d cave and agree to marry his wallflower daughter to my playboy—and now, apparently, gambling—brother.

That was why I despised people. None of them were worth caring about. The only one who’d ever reached my heart was gone. And Ernest Abertton would pay for it until his last breath.