Christmas with the Billionaire & A Tiara for Christmas
Author
Niobia Bryant
Reads
18,9K
Chapters
34
Chapter 1
“It is end of day, Samira.”
Life is all about balance.
Samira Ansah believed in that mantra and was determined to achieve it. So, when her virtual assistant gave her its daily reminder, she allowed herself just a few more moments at her desk looking over a report from one of the brand associates that she supervised as the growth strategist for the Ansah-Dalmount Group. Ambitious, she loved her work for the billion-dollar conglomerate, particularly since her late father, Kwame Ansah, had been one of its founders. She was determined to be equally successful in work, play and love. Balance.
She exited the document and then logged out of the ADG network before she rose from her desk to walk to her slender lone window in the corner. New York’s autumn skies were darkening, the lights across the metropolitan area illuminating the windows of towering buildings, the streetlights and headlights of the many cars moving at a slow pace in the congested traffic below. She found it exhilarating. Of all the places she’d lived and all the places she’d seen as she’d traveled around the world, New York was one of her faves, because the vibe was hard to match.
Samira turned from the window of her modest office, tucking her jet-black, nearly waist-length hair behind her ear before she pulled on her lined trench coat. After retrieving her black leather Fendi purse and a Dolce & Gabbana garment bag from the hook on the back of the door, she left her office without a look back.
The large office the three members on her team shared was already empty. She was always the first to arrive and last to leave by design. The heels of her designer shoes clicked against the marble floors as she took long strides, made easy by her tall height. She reached the wood-paneled elevator before the reception desk, turning to look around.
The corporation operated around the globe, including in Milan and London, but New York was its headquarters. ADG owned the twenty-five-story building but leased out all but the top four floors, with the co-CEOs occupying the extravagant two offices on the top floor with their own private elevators. The majority of the small glass-enclosed offices were empty as the time neared seven. It was on this twenty-second floor where the lion’s share of ADG employees were housed. The worker bees. Those driven by pure hunger to succeed. Many who wanted not just a paycheck but to climb the ranks of the company and lay claim to one of the executive offices on the upper floors that came with larger space, better views and priceless executive assistants.
Samira wanted that as well.
Although she was an heir to the Ansah fortune, which made her wealthy, Samira’s ambition was to help run the billion-dollar conglomerate. Business was in her blood. Her grandfather, Ebo Ansah, began a financial services firm in Ghana in the 1950s that grew significantly in the mid-1960s, providing a very respectable living for his wife, Kessie, and their four children. His eldest son—her father, Kwame—grew up under the tutelage of his father and was anxious for his opportunity to enter the family business. They expanded the financial services offered to their loyal clients and grew their business. Life was good, and with the Ansah men working together doggedly, it became even better. Upon Ebo’s passing in the early 1980s, Kwame took over the running of the business, aggressively acquiring smaller banks and insurance and investment firms to catapult himself to wealth and prominence. When the opportunity arose in 1987 to join forces with Frances Dalmount, a business competitor from England, he accepted with the intent to use their combined resources to take on other business ventures. The Ansah-Dalmount Group was formed, eventually becoming one of the most successful conglomerates in the world with its business umbrella covering financial services, oil, hotel/resorts/casinos, telecommunications and, most recently, shipping.
Samira was just a teenager when her beloved father was killed in a plane crash. She was a daddy’s girl and took his death hard. The years had passed, but her pain and regret lingered. As she entered college and majored in finance, she was determined to help cement her father’s legacy by working alongside her two older brothers, Alek and Naim. Alek was the heir to the proverbial throne, and her brother Naim, who was just as qualified to lead, had worked his way up the ladder from the marketing department to become president of the telecommunications arm.
She was determined to have similar success.
Already, she’d overcome the usual gender hurdles. She’d slain Alek’s outdated misgivings about women in business—whether they could measure up or stick to the job in the same way men did—and she’d been inspired by the tenacity and work ethic of his wife, Alessandra. And it had been her sister-in-law who gave her the shot her brother had not.
“I want to work for the firm my grandfather created from nothing and my father helped shape into a billion-dollar corporation. I want in at ADG.”
Samira remembered the moment when she’d stiffened her spine, notched her chin and presented her résumé to Alessandra with more confidence than she actually felt. She was thankful for the brilliant businesswoman who had become her sister-in-law. Like Alessandra, she wanted to be one of the rare women of color to become a top executive and to create opportunities for others like her, wanting the corporate glass ceiling shattered once and for all. Lately, she had been pondering starting a blog to help other women who aspired to enter corporate America by highlighting women in business and offering career and education advice.
Ding.
She turned as the wood-paneled door to the elevator opened and stepped inside the lift, pressing the button for the penthouse. The ride was smooth and quick. Within minutes she was striding off the elevator and past the empty reception area to the wide marbled hall leading to Alessandra’s suite of offices. The automated glass door leading into the outer office opened upon her approach.
“Good evening, Ms. Ansah. Go right in,” Alessandra’s executive assistant, Unger Rawlings, said.
Samira gave the tall and slender man a soft smile as she continued past his desk to enter the spacious office taking up almost half of the entire floor of the building. The nearly 360-degree view of Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling windows was spectacular. The open floor plan was breathtakingly beautiful and sleek at over three thousand square feet, with twenty-foot ceilings with skylights, a private spa bath, a small kitchen, an exercise room, a lounge area with a grand fireplace, a library and an outdoor terrace.
Over the years since she claimed her spot as co-CEO of ADG, Alessandra had made the space that once belonged to Samira’s father her own.
“Hello, Ms. CEO.”
Alessandra paused in sliding folders inside her red leather briefcase and offered her a warm smile. “Hello. Date night?” she asked.
“Yes,” she said, coming to a stop before her desk. “Thanks for letting me use your bathroom. I’m meeting someone for dinner and would rather not make a trip home to change.”
“Someone?” Alessandra asked, tucking her sleek bob-cut hair behind her ear, the diamond of her extravagant wedding ring sparkling brilliantly with the gesture.
“Norman. Stockbroker. Tall. Gorgeous. Funny,” she supplied, her eyes sparkling as she held up crossed fingers.
To date, Samira had been unlucky in love, and she wanted to change that. She was single and happily dating after her college boyfriend ended things because he no longer wanted to be in a relationship. Samira was of the school of thought that what was not meant to be shouldn’t be forced, and she took the breakup in stride, determined not to give up on love. For her, happily-ever-after meant falling in love, starting a family and thriving in business. She wanted it all.
The last of the shelves of books lining the wall swung open, and her brother Alek walked in from the long, windowless concrete hallway that ran along the back wall of the boardroom and connected his office to that of his wife. He smiled at them both, looking very GQ in his tailored suit and polished handmade shoes. He moved to Alessandra’s side, setting his own briefcase on the desk before sliding his arm around her body and pressing a kiss to her temple.
Samira stroked the garment bag tucked over her arm as she eyed two successful business magnates running a billion-dollar business and their family together with both brilliance and love.
Alek’s eyes dipped down to the garment bag and tote she carried. “What are you up to tonight?” he asked, his British accent acquired from their London upbringing still as present as her own.
“Minding the business that pays me, big brother,” she quipped, giving him a playful wink.
“Funny. I thought I paid you,” he returned as his wife looked on at their spirited sibling jibing.
Samira chuckled. “For my work. Not my business.”
“Touché,” Alek said, inclining his head.
“I’m having dinner at Daniel,” she supplied as she turned on her heels to move toward Alessandra’s private en suite bathroom.
“On East Sixty-Fifth?”
Samira nodded.
“Order the foie gras–stuffed quail. It’s really good.”
“Will do,” she said as the frosted automated door to the spa-like bathroom opened as she neared.
“We’re headed out. Be safe,” Alessandra called out behind her.
“I will, and tell Aliyah that Aunt Mira will see her this weekend,” she said, rushing into the bathroom for fear of being late.
Not the best impression on a first date.
Quickly she undressed and twisted her hair up under a shower cap, oblivious to the elegant surroundings as she started the water and stepped beneath the rain showerhead.
“That feels good,” she said to herself, wishing she had more time to enjoy the spray of the water against her skin.
Twenty minutes later, with her makeup freshened up and her body smelling of her favorite Hermès 24 Fauborg perfume of ylang-ylang, orange blossoms, jasmine and iris, Samira made her way out of the office and toward the elevator. She felt decadent in a satin-trimmed lace dress with corset boning that clung to her curves and revealed just enough of her skin to tempt and tantalize.
And later, as she finally entered the elegant Upper East Side eatery and was led to the bar, she smiled as Norman rose from the stool and presented her a white cosmopolitan with an orchid in an oversize sphere of ice.
“You remembered,” she said, accepting the drink and the warm kiss he pressed to her cheek.
“Most definitely,” Norman assured her.
She’d mentioned the delicious drink in passing when they first decided where to have their dinner date.
Nice touch.
She slid onto the stool he held out for her, taking a sip of her drink before setting it and her clutch atop the bar in front of a backlit wall filled with shelves of liquors. “So, tell me more about yourself, Norman,” she said, crossing her long legs and drawing his eye.
They’d met through an online dating app. Samira was not only an employee on the rise at ADG but also one of the heirs to the family fortune. Being a billionaire heiress made her cautious about whom she chose to have in her life, and the app allowed access to a wide dating pool while still keeping a good chunk of her life—and her wealth—to herself. The last thing she was looking for was fake love fostered by a desire for a billionaire lifestyle. The money she received via her share of the family trust and her shares in ADG made her career more of a passion than a necessity.
As he talked of his life, Samira listened intently, sizing him up and finding he might very well fit in her life. He was smart, well-spoken, attractive and groomed. She was surrounded by power couples: Alek and Alessandra; her brother’s best friend, Chance, a self-made tech billionaire and his wife, Ngozi, a powerful attorney; and her other brother, Naim, and his wife, Marisa, also an heir to the wealthy Dalmount family, who was creating her own destiny through her own chocolate business. Power and passion.
Each woman was a wife, mother and shrewd businesswoman.
I can have it all, too.
I will have it all.
Emerson Lance Millner’s daily ritual was set in stone, and he liked it that way.
With a soft grunt, he awakened. He reached for his iPhone and checked the time, already knowing it was somewhere around 3:00 a.m., as it always was when he rose. Setting the phone back down on the nightstand, cloaked by the darkness of the early-morning hours, Lance moved his frame to sit up on the edge of the king-size bed. He forced himself not to think of just how empty the large bed was even with his over-six-foot height and broad build.
His grief was the norm for him as well.
He rubbed his eyes with his hands before stretching his arms high above his head and then rising to his feet. He waved his hand over the base of the lamp to softly illuminate his master bedroom. Nude, he strode across the polished hardwood floors to enter the walk-in closet/dressing room and continued through to the rustic-styled bathroom. He reached inside the tiled glass-enclosed shower to turn the water on to steaming hot before brushing his teeth at the double sink, avoiding his reflection in the copper-framed mirror that accentuated the wood walls.
In the shower, he faced the opposite wall and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the hot water pelting against his shoulders, back and buttocks. These days it was the only way his body was touched. He kept himself isolated and alone, suffering in silence and only finding the smallest bit of joy in his work.
Not in love.
Not in a family.
Not anymore.
Lance winced as pain radiated across his body, and he tilted his head back to wash away his tears beneath the spray of the water. Three years had not dulled his heartache or lessened his anger and regret. They were his new normal.
He finished his shower and stepped out of the glass enclosure with the steam swirling outward as well, surrounding his frame. He reached for a plush chocolate-colored towel and dried every inch of his body vigorously, giving his face just one hard press with the cloth before dropping it into the chute behind the door where it would land downstairs in a hamper inside the laundry room.
Without looking in the mirror, he brushed his close-cut hair and walked back inside the closet/dressing room area, moving past the shelves and racks of tailored designer clothing he no longer favored. Not for years. Instead, he chose a pair of jeans, a thin long-sleeved T-shirt and lightweight boots and grabbed one of a dozen boonie hats he owned to fold and shove in the rear pocket of his pants once he was dressed.
He paused before turning to eye the clothes that lined the other side of the massive closet. His gut clenched as he allowed himself to stroke the skirt of a sequined crimson dress. Most days he was good at ignoring all the things left behind.
Clearing his throat, he freed the cloth and rushed from the closet, swinging the door with one hard shove to slam it closed.
Wham!
The noise almost surprised him.
His house—his rustic eight-bedroom, nine-bathroom, mansion—was always so quiet.
Lance’s footsteps echoed against the hardwood floors as he left his bedroom and used the metal-framed elevator at the end of the hall to go up one flight. He opened the wrought iron gate to step directly into the oversize attic he long ago had converted into his office. Here the dark wood, vaulted ceilings, large skylights and abundance of shelves stuffed with books gave him the inspiration he needed to create. Here the lights stayed on like it was the hub of the house.
He pulled the cap from his pocket as he moved across the room to his large ebony desk. Tossing the hat on the corner of the desk, he sat in his mahogany leather chair and held the edge to roll forward. With movements that were almost automatic, he turned on the eighty-six-inch television on the wall but placed it on mute, turned on the desk lamp illuminating a perfect circle of light down upon the college-ruled notebook and extra-fine-point pen that sat upon it. Last, he put his phone on Do Not Disturb and synced it to the speaker sitting on the edge of the desk before pulling up Meek Mill’s album Championships.
He glanced at the time. Four a.m.
Right on time. Just like always.
He picked up the pen and tapped it against the edge of the leather blotter of the desk as he reread the last few pages of his crime fiction novel to regain the pace and rhythm of the story before putting pen to paper. For the next two hours, he got lost in the latest crime-solving adventure of his protagonist. The feel of the pen scratching against the pad was addictive, and he allowed himself to get lost in a world of his own creation.
For him, the computer felt like a middleman blocking him from the emotions he poured into his writing. He knew it was a mind thing, but it was his process. His comfort. He had no plans to even try to do it differently.
Thankfully his millions of loyal readers enjoyed his stories as much as he found pleasure in creating them, making him a very wealthy man. A very lonely, isolated, wealthy man.
He paused and flexed his head toward his left shoulder and then the right.
Lance had always had a love for words, starting when he was a child fascinated by reading books and getting lost in stories. With the dissolution of his parents’ marriage in his teens, he turned to writing to create a world where he felt more in control than he did in reality. He began with short stories and novellas that he would only share with close friends but soon developed and completed his first book. He was first published at the age of twenty-one and won major book awards for his debut novel. When his second two-book offer from his publisher was made via his agent, Lance officially became a full-time author, and his career only grew with each new book release.
It had been eleven years and five bestselling books translated into a dozen or more foreign languages.
Coming to the end of the twentieth chapter, Lance dropped his pen atop the notebook and worked the fingers of his left hand to relieve the tightness caused by his extensive handwriting. Eight pages. Just another twenty or so and the first draft of Danger was done.
He frowned deeply as he turned and looked down the length of the attic at the smaller desk with an all-in-one touch-screen computer sitting there. Unused and uncared for. Lance disdained it and normally relied on his personal assistant to convert his handwritten text to type.
Unfortunately, he was in need of a new one. His fifth in the last two years.
He checked the time. Seven a.m.
Right on time.
Lance rose from his chair and moved around the desk to one of the windows in the room. Like every other in the massive house, it was covered by blackout curtains, which he moved aside with his hand just enough to peer out at the sun, now high in the blue skies above the heart-shaped lake that served as the center of the small, affluent town of Passion Grove, New Jersey.
No sign of rain.
“Good,” he muttered, shifting the curtain back before he retraced his steps to the desk to grab his hat and pull it over his head, being sure to lower it over the top portion of his face. He left his phone on the desk and made his way across the attic to the elevator, riding it down to the first floor.
His strides were long and his steps echoed through the dimly lit, empty house. There was no staff. He preferred the solace even if he knew the majority of the house was sorely ignored and in need of organizing and dusting. Most of his time on the lakeside estate was spent fishing or holed up in his office writing.
He entered the large chef’s kitchen, pausing just long enough to grab a bottle of water from the Viking fridge and a container of spicy sesame stick, mini pretzel and almond mix. He left the kitchen and entered the mudroom, tugging on his beloved safari-style jacket before grabbing his fishing rods, bait and tackle box. After opening the door and pausing in the portal to take a deep breath of fresh and crisp fall air, he continued down the paved walk leading across the yard to the pier, where his all-black twenty-five-foot bass boat was docked on the water.
Lance swapped his fishing equipment for the bright neon life vest, pulling it on before untying the vessel and using his foot to launch the boat and then apply the throttle. For safety, especially boating alone, he connected himself to the kill switch via an extendable cord to disable the motor in case he fell off the boat. He accelerated forward until he reached the center of the lake and dropped the anchor. As he baited the hook with an earthworm and cast his line, he spotted two figures jogging around the lake. As they did every morning.
It was the attorney and her billionaire husband. The tech guy. She used to run alone every morning, and then one day he joined her and it had been the two of them ever since. He’d read in the local newspaper, the Passion Grove Press, about their marriage and well wishes for a happily-ever-after.
Lance grunted in derision. Good luck with that.
They both waved as they jogged. He grimaced as he jerked his hand up in the air in return.
Ignoring them, he gently wiggled his rod to move the bait and attract one of the perch or striped bass swimming below. At the tug of the line, he leaned back, tightened his grip on the rod and gave it a jerk upward to lodge the hook in the fish’s mouth. With ease, he reeled in his catch and freed it from the hook before dropping it into the boat’s live well. That was the only one he would keep, clean and then give away or freeze. He switched to a barbless hook in preparation of properly releasing the rest of the fish he would catch back into the water with minimal damage.
A fisherman who didn’t eat fish. That irony was Emerson Lance Millner.
He was the only regular fisher in the town. Most residents enjoyed the lake for swimming in the summer or skating upon in the winter months soon to come. He looked around at the serene surroundings after he baited and tossed his line again. He was glad the early-morning hour kept the residents away. Later in the day, after school was done, teenagers would fill the lakeside benches, picnic areas and pergolas while enjoying the music that would blare from the surround-sound system.
He would be long gone and back inside his home, leaving them to it.
Not that he didn’t love the small town of Passion Grove. The residents knew him well and gave him the space he craved. The fishing gave him solace. He found all the streets being named after flowers nonsensical, but the beauty of the town was undeniable, with its large estates set back from the pristine streets, wrought iron lampposts and oversize flower pots on each corner. The convenience of upscale living devoid of the fast pace of larger cities was ideal with a population under two thousand and fewer than three hundred homes, each on an average of five or more acres.
Passion Grove was his home and had been for the last five years, and there was no changing that any time soon, even though he owned land and properties elsewhere.
He fished for the next few hours before steering his boat back to his dock. He wanted to continue, but his desire to write was stronger...and his hunger even stronger than that. In the mudroom, as he washed his hands, he quickly pondered walking to the town’s main street area for a pastry and strong cup of coffee from the bakery, La Boulangerie, but instead, he made his way to the kitchen to clean the fish in the copper apron farmhouse sink before vacuum sealing it. With his hat still on his head, Lance opened the fridge and found it lacking.
He wasn’t much of a cook and usually ate precooked meals sold at the Gourmet Way, the specialty grocery store in town. His stomach growled as he reached for a bowl of egg salad, opening it and holding it to his nose to sniff out its freshness. With a shrug of one shoulder, he set it on the slate countertop and reached for a bag of nutty whole wheat bread. He checked that as well, found no mold and made himself two heaping sandwiches, cutting each in half.
Turning with saucer in hand, Lance paused at a clear and vivid memory of better days. Smiling faces. Soft touches. Loving hugs. Laughter. Family.
He closed his eyes and tightly gripped the saucer. The silence mocked him, pushing him to a dark place he fought hard to escape on a daily basis.
Needing an escape, he rushed across his spacious home and onto the elevator, feeling relieved once he was inside his office. He cleared his throat as he took his seat and bit off a big hunk of his sandwich. And then another and another and another, chewing and swallowing without tasting and savoring.
Just going through the motions. A lot of his life felt that way since...
Brnnnnnnnnng...
Lance looked over at the cordless landline phone on the edge of his desk but didn’t bother to answer it. He only used the number for business. He glanced at the time on his phone. It was near 10:00 a.m. Like clockwork, he started his second wave of writing at the same time every day, and anyone who knew him well knew that.
Brnnnnnnnnng...
He grunted and took another bite of his sandwich before swiveling in his chair and opening the small fridge behind him to remove a bottle of fruit punch.
“Leave a message.” His recorded voice echoed into the air. Gruff and rough.
Beeeeeep.
“Lance, pick up. I know you’re in that office listening to me. It’s rude and you know it.”
It was Annalise Ray. His longtime literary agent, who knew his writing habits inside and out.
“Leave a message,” he repeated, setting the bottle down on the desk and reclaiming his pen.
“Okay, fine, Lance,” she said, her soft tone amused. “Let me know when you want to advertise for a new assistant and I will handle that for you.”
He reached to press the button to answer the call on speakerphone. “I’m ready,” he said.
Annalise chuckled. “So I was right,” she said, sounding victorious. “Hello there, Mr. Millner.”
Lance clenched his jaw. He had no time for pleasantries. “Let’s find one that lasts longer than a few months,” he said.
“One what?” she asked.
He drew his fingers into a fist. He could clearly envision the petite woman sitting behind her large desk, legs crossed, with a smile on her face as if she had all the time in the world to chat with him. Annalise was a big talker. Lance was not.
“Assistant, Annalise,” he said, wishing he’d never picked up the call.
“Yes. Right. Yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “This time I’ll line up qualified applicants for you to meet with, and then you choose for yourself.”
His brows deepened as he thought of having to speak to a ton of strangers, but they furrowed even more at the idea of having to continuously select a new assistant when one either quit or was fired. With a breath, he said, “You’re right. Thanks.”
“No problem, Em,” she said, using her nickname for him.
The line went quiet.
He tensed. The pattern was familiar.
“Listen, Em,” Annalise began.
Just like always.
Lance was well aware that she wanted nothing more than to elevate their relationship from business to pleasure. Her hints and gentle nudging over the years had become hard to ignore.
“Maybe this weekend I can drive down to the estate, cook you a Southern meal like my grandma taught me and we can review the résumés together,” she suggested, her soft voice hopeful.
“No, Annalise...but thank you,” Lance added, not meaning for his rebuke to be too harsh.
More silence.
“They would want you to be happy, Em, not just surviving or getting by, but truly living.”
Lance closed his eyes tightly and released a little breath. So clearly, he envisioned them both smiling at him. One with the love of a woman for her man and the other the adoration of a daughter for her father.
His heart literally ached as a pain radiated across his chest, and his grief nearly swallowed him. It felt just as deep and unwavering as it did three years ago when he lost his wife and his six-year-old daughter. His family. The loves of his life.
In his midtwenties, he’d married his childhood love, Belle, and settled into a happy life as a writer and husband. The birth of his daughter, Emma Belle, was the highlight of his life. Fatherhood had been key for him. He was very hands-on and loved her dearly.
“Em? You still there?” Annalise asked.
He didn’t answer her. His thoughts were locked on the loss of his family.
In the time since they’d left him behind, Lance had withdrawn from the world, barely leaving his estate and clinging to the anger he felt at their deaths. He tried his best to rebuild his life but found it hard to not be consumed by grief that made him sullen and disgruntled. He knew he was considered a recluse, and he welcomed the clear field everyone gave him when he did venture off his estate.
Writing and fishing were his sanctuaries.
“Em?”
He cleared his throat and picked up his pen to tap against the edge of his notebook at a rapid pace. “Annalise, I really need to get back to work,” he said, using his free hand to shift the hat he still wore low over his face. “Just line up a list of appointments in two weeks, here at the estate, and I’ll select a new assistant.”
“Okay, but, Em—”
“Annalise, please,” he stressed. “Let me be, damn it.” His shoulders slumped with regret, “Annalise—”
The sound of the dial tone echoed into the air.
He reached and hit the button to end the call on his end before dropping his pen and sitting back in his reclining chair as he wiped his hand over his mouth.
Lance felt remorse for his harshness, but he also felt Annalise was wrong to press him to move out of his grief on her terms. He knew she wanted more from him than he was willing to give to anyone. Love and a new relationship were not a part of his plan.
Memories of his time with his Belle and Emma were more than enough.
