Page 45 of It’s Me, but Different

“Then go after her.”

I look at her as if she's gone crazy.

“Go after her? Harper, you just read the fucking letter. She hates me. She thinks I'm a rich manipulator who plays with people's feelings just for fun.”

“Prove her wrong.”

Six hours later, I'm standing in front of a red brick apartment building in Denver, with red and swollen eyes from crying so much on the plane that I have no tears left.

I've rehearsed a thousand times what I wanted to say. I've practiced every word, every gesture, every plea.

But now, as I watch the light in the second-floor windows, I'm so nervous I've forgotten everything.

“Esme. It's Sloane. Please, open the door. I need to talk to you,” I beg, knocking with my knuckles.

Silence.

“I know you're there. Just… please, just let me explain. This has all been a terrible misunderstanding.”

More silence.

“It's Sloane, Mom!” Ana Sofia's voice comes from inside.

“Get away from the door,” I hear. “Now.”

“But Mom…”

“I said, get away! To your room!”

I hear the sound of small feet running. A door slamming shut. And then, nothing.

I stay there for two hours, calling occasionally, begging, pleading, knocking until my knuckles are raw.

A man threatens to call the police.

But Esme doesn't open the door.

Chapter 19

Sloane

The next day, I intercept her in front of her office building. I've been waiting in the parking lot since five in the morning.

She walks fast, head down, dressed in a gray suit that's too serious and doesn't flatter her at all. She seems to have aged ten years in one day.

“Esme!” I whisper with fear.

She stops dead and tenses as if someone threatened to kill her.

“What part of 'leave me alone' didn't you understand?” she growls without turning around. “If you don't get away from me, I'm going to call the police, Sloane. Please, don't force me to do it.”

“I imagine you heard a conversation in Harper's office, but it wasn't about you, I swear. We were talking about a hotel in Switzerland. A business acquisition I've been recommending to Harper for months. The owner wastoo proud to accept that the company was ruined, and her daughter helped us make everything seem like a coincidence so she wouldn't feel ashamed selling it.”

She turns slowly, but the hatred in her gaze hurts more than a physical blow.

“You should be a screenwriter, or a novelist,” she says with a bitter smile. “Do you really think I'm stupid enough to believe something like that?”

“You can ask anyone on the board of directors. You can review the meeting minutes. We've been working on that acquisition for a while.”