I mean, what the hell was he smoking when he wrote his will, leaving me controlling interest in Pendergast? I could barely balance my checkbook. He'd try to talk business, and my eyes would glaze over. He should have left it to one of those horrible cousins instead of willing them a hundred million each. At least then I wouldn't have three assholes contesting the will. Only people who have had money all their lives would be pissed they only got a hundred million bucks. Should have just given in, but I was just numb. One minute I had three grand to my name, and the next I was a billionaire with ten houses around the world, twelve cars, a jet, three boats, a baseball team, and was the figurehead of an international company employing twenty thousand people. At least I haven't fucked it up. Yet.
But no more work tonight. I've been in and out of meetings since six this morning. Lane, the CFO since Justin's dad, insists I don't need to be there at all. I told him to stuff it. If the business generations of Pendergasts poured their blood, sweat, and tears into it fails on my watch, I'll never forgive myself. The staff does the brunt of the work, so I just step in on the big deals or when a charity needs press coverage. The infamous Joanna Fallon is quite the draw. The upper crust and reporters from all divisions will pay good money and newsbytes to rub shoulders with the disgraced cop turned billionaire. If I'm feeling particularly nice, I'll even wear a sleeveless gown so they can all check out the burn scar on my upper arm from when a psychopath shot acid at me. At least the men look at my arm and not my boobs for once.
Off comes my Prada suit and on slip my old sweats from the Academy. I pull my long, curly black hair into a ponytail, wash off a hundred dollars worth of make-up, and stroll out of my bedroom the size of my old apartment into the equally gigantic, dark hallway with oil paintings and ancient tapestries hanging between the six doors. Unlike the rest, the master bedroom is modern and light with white walls, comfortable furniture, and electronic gadgets galore. Justin didn't see the point of messing with the rest of the hundred-year-old mansion when he inherited it, and I didn't either. Everything is exactly how he left it. My cousin Veronica says it's unhealthy. The few times she's come over, she comments it's like walking into a mausoleum with shrines to my dead friend in every room. She actually gave me the name of a therapist when she found out I refused to throw out his clothes and I was sleeping in his old bed. I changed the sheets!
As I descend the grand marble staircase, my butler Dobbs strolls out from the kitchen carrying a tray of food. I inherited him as well. Justin left him seven million dollars and the Rolls Royce, but he insisted on sticking around to serve the house's owner as he had for over forty years. His wife died before I met him twenty years ago, and like me the Pendergasts were all he really had. I thank God everyday he decided to stay. He's family. "Miss Joanna, cook made you chicken breast, steamed cauliflower, and an apple for desert. I hope this is satisfactory."
I grimace. "I hate diets."
"If I may be so forward, I will say it appears to be working."
I take the tray. "Thanks. I still have fifteen pounds to go." I gained twenty-five this year and have been in a dozen gossip rags, none flattering. My favorite was that I was pregnant with Justin's love child. He would have gotten a kick out of that. "I'll eat this then go for a run. Have you had dinner?"
"I was about to," Dobbs says.
"Then you can keep me company. Let's eat outside. Take advantage of the weather."
"Yes, miss," he says before disappearing back into the kitchen. I really don't feel like having dinner with anyone but the few nights I'm home at a reasonable time I try to dine with him. He's stuck in this monstrosity all day with no one but the servants under him to talk to, who he just orders around. The man's probably lonelier than even I. If that's possible.
I turn on the TV in the living room and up the volume before opening the sliding glass door and stepping onto the patio. Even with the TV I can hear the lapping of waves of the ocean below. I don't know how many nights Justin and I spent out here just talking, drinking--that last one was me--and laughing our asses off. A wave of sadness washes over me like a tsunami as I remember his smiling face sitting across from me. I get at least five of those a day. A smell, a pair of Caribbean blue eyes, hell even just an Armani suit triggers the emotional natural disaster. I have gotten better at hiding when it happens. No more near panic attacks, sharp intakes of breath, and the desire to double over as if punched in the stomach for me. I've found that not having investors believing the head of the company needs a straightjacket is a great motivator to develop a poker face. Only took half a year. I'm a slow learner.