“Thank you, Mr. Carter,” Edmond replied with a polite smile, a hint of apology in his eyes. “About that investment proposal you approached me with a few days ago—took it to the board, and after a lengthy discussion, we all agreed it was just too risky. So…”
“Alright, alright, maybe we’ll get another chance to work together down the line,” Langston interrupted, forcing a smile, though inside he simmered with resentment. Too risky, huh.
The real reason was obvious: the Carter family’s fortunes had been waning for years, and now with a lawsuit hanging over their heads, everyone was eager to distance themselves. These finance guys cared about nothing but profit—loyalty and sentiment meant nothing to them.
And Ivy—a woman who could easily have her pick of jobs—chose to wade into this cutthroat industry? Didn’t she know just how ruthless it could be?
Langston stewed in his thoughts, each passing minute hardening his resolve. He was more certain than ever: neither Ivy nor Jamison were to be underestimated, and his desire to see justice for his son only grew stronger.
Halfway through the reception, Edmond was called away for business—the evening wasn’t just about cocktails and small talk, after all, but about forging partnerships. Ivy, still new to the firm, wasn’t senior enough to join the negotiations. She contented herself with sampling hors d’oeuvres, chatting idly with a few alumni about campus memories—just a little nostalgia, nothing more.
Langston had been biding his time. At last, he found his opening.
He strode over and fixed his gaze on Ivy.
Sensing the unfriendly stare, Ivy turned and asked, “Good evening, Mr. Carter. Is there something I can help you with?”
Langston’s smile was icy. “You don’t recognize me?”
Ivy blinked, puzzled. “Should I?”
She scrutinized his face, and the surname “Carter” finally triggered her memory. “You’re Sheridan’s father, aren’t you?”
Just days ago, Jamison had mentioned Sheridan—recently released on medical parole. Jamison had asked Boyd to look into his condition; the news wasn’t good.
Sheridan was suffering from kidney failure, requiring ongoing treatment and dialysis. The only real hope was a transplant, but finding a suitable donor was a grueling wait.
Ivy still remembered her reaction—somewhat cynical—when Jamison told her. Poetic justice, she’d thought. Sheridan had lived recklessly, partying every night, indulging every whim; in the end, he’d destroyed his own kidneys. If that wasn’t karma, what was?
Now, with Sheridan’s father approaching her with such hostility, Ivy couldn’t help but tense up. She was on her guard, though she consoled herself: at a crowded event like this, he wouldn’t dare do anything rash. Still, it was the hidden threats that worried her more; she made a mental note to warn Jamison later.
Langston, realizing Ivy had figured out his identity so quickly, sneered, “Clever girl. But sometimes being too clever is dangerous. It can backfire on you.”
Ivy dropped the pleasantries. “What do you want from me? Are you here to settle the score for Sheridan?”
“And shouldn’t I?” Langston’s voice grew sharp, his anger barely contained. “You and Jamison set a trap, ruined my son’s reputation, and then he lands in prison, develops acute nephritis—which goes untreated and turns into kidney failure. Who should pay for that?”
Ivy’s heart skipped. So that’s how Sheridan’s condition had deteriorated.
Still, she couldn’t accept the blame—it wasn’t her fault, and it certainly wasn’t Jamison’s. Standing tall, she replied, “It was Emma who pursued Mr. Sheridan and dragged him into the mess. What does that have to do with us? Let’s not pretend your son’s an innocent victim. You know better than anyone what kind of man he is.”
Emma and Sheridan—one was a moth drawn to the flame, the other a rotten egg. They’d found each other, used each other, and paid the price. It was their own doing; how was that anyone else’s fault?
“You certainly have a sharp tongue,” Langston said, his opinion of her rising despite himself. Now he understood why Jamison had taken an interest in the so-called “washed up, friendless Miss Windsor.” It was clearly about more than just her looks.
Langston turned to leave, but not before delivering a final warning: “Leave yourself a way out, Miss Windsor. People who push too hard always face consequences in the end. Jamison’s ruthless tactics will come back to haunt him sooner or later.”
Ivy mulled over his words. It was clear Langston had set his sights on Jamison for revenge. Uneasy, she pulled out her phone and sent Jamison a quick message, summarizing what had just happened and urging him to be careful.
The reception finally wound down after ten. Ivy, having had a few drinks, couldn’t drive herself home. Edmond, ever considerate, arranged for a driver to take her back.
“Ivy, if all goes as planned, you can start your internship here next month. Year-end is always busy, so it’ll be great experience for you.” Edmond smiled as he closed the car door for her.
Ivy accepted happily and slid into the backseat.
Not far from the parking lot, an unremarkable van started up. As Ivy’s Maserati pulled onto the road, the van quietly followed.
In the back seat, Ivy glanced at her phone—no reply from Jamison yet. He must still be tied up with work.
The driver asked for her address, then drove in silence.
Drowsiness crept in. Ivy held her phone, waiting for a response, and closed her eyes, drifting in and out of sleep.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when, suddenly, the Maserati swerved sharply. Ivy’s heart leapt into her throat. She jerked upright, wide awake. “What’s going on?”