She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 47

Chapter 47 The Old Goat

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I have attended more tedious dinner parties than any man should have to survive in a single lifetime, and yet my family continues to find new ways to outdo themselves.

I hand my coat to the young lady at the door and take stock of the foyer.

I was hoping that arriving this late would mean I miss half this damn dinner, but they’re not even sitting down yet.

In fact, just about everyone is looking downright depressed, they’re not even festively tipsy.

Chase is standing near the bottom of the stairs with the expression of a man who has been sentenced to something and is calculating how much longer he has to serve.

He sees me and straightens. Old habits. I appreciate the respect.

“Grandfather.” He crosses the foyer and shakes my hand. Good grip. At least I taught him that much.

“You look miserable,” I tell him.

“I’m fine.”

“Alright. You look miserable and you’re lying about it.”

I wave my cane at the lot in the parlor.

“Who are all these people?”

“The Mortons. Nathanial’s family.”

I already know who they are of course.

I made it my business to know before I got in the car.

Hendrik Morton, self-made, tough as old leather, built his empire from a single logistics company into something genuinely impressive.

The children are ambitious vipers, by all accounts.

The step-son is complicated.

I like Nathanial, but he’s allowing grief and guilt to get the better of him. It’s a weakness I did not expect.

And then there’s Sonia.

I spotted her the moment I came through the door, standing near the window in a green dress, one hand resting on a stomach that looks about as convincing as a soufflé in a thunderstorm.

I’ve been around long enough to recognise a performance.

“Go,” I tell Chase.

He blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your daughter is across the city with her mother on Christmas Eve and you’re standing in your own foyer looking like a man at his own funeral.”

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I fix him with the look that has ended boardroom arguments for fifty years.

Spend Christmas Eve with your family. The real one.”

“I can’t just leave. Hendrik Morton is-”

“A man I am perfectly capable of talking to.”

I give Chase a firm look.

“You have made quite enough mistakes with that young woman. Stop making more of them. Go.”

Chase looks at me for a long moment.

Then something in his expression shifts, and he reaches for his coat.

Good boy.

I watch him go with a measure of satisfaction and then turn to face the room.

The sitting room is a fascinating disaster.

Hendrik Morton holds court near the fireplace, radiating the patient authority of a man accustomed to being the most important person present.

He clocks me the moment I enter and we exchange the brief, assessing, look of two old bulls deciding whether the pasture is large enough.

It’s a look I enjoy. Most men under sixty don’t know how to give it.

Nathaniel stands alone near the drinks table, working through his scotch at a pace that would concern me if it were my problem.

The girl, Sonia, is now hovering near the window with nowhere to direct her performance and no one paying attention to it.

And then there is the other one.

The man in the velvet blazer detaches himself from the wall and extends a hand with the particular energy of someone who finds everything genuinely entertaining.

“Julian Morton,” he says.

“You must be the Warren grandfather. I’ve been hoping someone interesting would show up.

I look at him for a moment.

Sharp eyes. Quick mind.

Absolutely no conscience whatsoever, if I’m any judge of character, and I’ve been judging character for eighty-one

years

“Elias Warren,” I reply, shaking his hand. “You’re the troublesome one.”

Julian’s grin widens

Culty Can I get you a drink?”

otch Don’t drown it

He procures it efficiently and falls into step beside me as I move further into the room, which I appreciate.

on’t move quickly these days and most young people don’t know whether to slow down or pretend they’re not slowing down.

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