Page 5 of Parker

Chapter three

Parker Fashion House, Glasgow

Joel

The door to my office slams closed as the only woman I’ve ever loved storms out. She hurled crystal at me moments ago, and all I want to do is go after her, make sure she’s alright.

But there are too many eyes between these walls. Too many mouths ready to report back. I must stick to the plan.

Nicky and I are over.

All I can do is ensure she is safe from afar, even if she hates me and refuses to ever speak to me again.

My mother would sacrifice her without blinking.

I’d burn this place to the ground before I let that happen.

This past year, everything spiraled out of control too fucking fast. I went from being happy with my soul mate, who looked at me with nothing but admiration… to being alone. The only comfort left now is my own company. And it burns.

I want nothing more than to hand her those damn designs and be done with it.

But doing so would leave my life not worth living.

My role in the system I live in is becoming more complicated each day as increased responsibility lands on my shoulders.

When you lead others, lead by example, even if it is the last thing you want.

Nicky reverted to her old ways, and I don’t know why. We were happy, and she stole from us when there was no reason to. She had nothing to prove. There was nothing to be gained from lying, other than self-gratification. I never saw that trait in her before her betrayal.

The downfall began when Ebony discovered Nicky had copied a previous designer’s work. All the patterns were logged in our computer archives years before she ever stepped foot in Parker Fashion. Ebony presented the undeniable evidence. My wife was a thief.

It broke my heart, wondering where I’d gone so wrong. Why did she feel the need to steal? Was it to live up to my family name? It’s the only reason I can half-believe. I trusted our relationship was stronger than that.

Her belief in herself was always fragile. Twisted by a past that told her she wasn’t good enough to move in my family’s circles.

She was wrong.

The only person who failed was me. Failed to make her feel secure. Failed to show her she had nothing to prove. That she was enough, flawed but perfect.

Nicky’s success wasn’t why I loved her. Sure, the way she stepped up within the business made me proud, but that was because I understood what she’d overcome.

But her refusal to admit her error had compounded the problem.

It led to her dismissal. The board fired my wife from our family business. There was no other option.

Our marriage cracked wide open, and each passing day only fractured us further. The happily ever after we both believed in withered before my eyes.

I move to sit back at my desk, the shattered glass still strewn over the oak floor. A few taps of the keys pulls up the security cameras. Nicky stalks across the parking lot in her sky-high heels, hips swinging with fury in that damn dress.

I can’t see her face, but I can imagine her expression. Livid, deadly, disappointed. It was something I became used to during the days of our marriage’s decline. The change was so rapid, it was like whiplash.

The black gates retract, allowing her to walk out into the Glasgow streets, and she disappears from view. I pick up my phone to send a message. There are some things my mother doesn’t need to know.

Follow her. Ensure she gets home safe.

The reply is instantaneous, as it should be. Her safety is his job.

Yes, Boss.

After the call I received earlier about Nicky’s impending arrival, I hoped for a more pleasant reunion.

Perhaps an apology for the police station incident, or an adult conversation.

A discussion, at least. I never expected her to ask for her designs, the ones she stole.

Sometimes, I look at her and wonder if she’s still the woman I fell in love with, even though my aching heart confirms it every fucking time.

My cell vibrates, interrupting my pity party, alerting me to a message. My mother.

Boardroom now.

Resigned to yet another Monday morning debrief from the woman who birthed me, I close my laptop and do as I’m told.

The boardroom is on the third floor of the building. As I climb the stairs, dread stirs in my chest. It’s a feeling I’ve become used to growing up in a family like mine. That sense of knowing I won’t like what is on the other side of the door before I arrive.

My family has never been about love or trust. The focus is always on winning.

By the age of fifteen, my mother, Imelda Grey, was contracted to marry my father. Evander Parker, being ten years older than her, had to wait until her eighteenth birthday to take possession of his wife.

My parents’ love story I’ve heard many times, always told laced with adoration and infatuation. But looking back, I realize it was purely a business transaction, and that depresses me. The fact that I was conceived for money, not love, explains my mother’s bitterness.

Others controlled her from her youngest years; she never had independence in her life decisions.

If she’d been left to her own devices, I wonder what direction she would have taken.

She is a beautiful woman, tall and slender with deep brown eyes and long silver hair.

Our own fashion house designs every outfit in her extensive wardrobe, and she drips in jewelry.

The only thing missing from her life is happiness.

My father was a troublesome man to be married to.

He lived under the silent pressure of the Parker name.

My great-grandfather built a dynasty, and it has been passed down through his son and so on.

Harold Parker, the original king of the Parker empire, was ruthless.

He relied on corrupt business deals and payoffs to produce much of our wealth illegally.

In the late 1890s, my great-grandfather ran a security business, but this was not your normal protection company.

In our business, you either paid for a hit or you paid not to be killed.

Harold Parker ran a dangerous game between the customer and the victim, often double-crossing people.

He made millions in dirty money, which was laundered through night-time establishments.

His son, James, my grandfather, felt uncomfortable with the bloodshed caused by his father.

During his reign, the business moved to the hoarding of property and assets.

Often, he would buy up vast amounts of housing and businesses in trouble, only to rent them back to their previous owners.

Money circled the area but always ended up back in the Parker family pockets.

When my father became head of the company at eighteen after the death of his father, he continued the heritage much the same, learning on the job with the support of the surrounding men.

Parker Fashion was born in 1973 after he spotted the talent of one of his men’s wives in creating clothing.

Elizabeth was a magician with a needle, creating one-off pieces for friends and family.

My father took her talent and made himself a multi-million-pound business.

They removed Elizabeth from the business in the early eighties after she asked for more recognition for its success.

They handed her a check for one million pounds and told her to enjoy her retirement.

The mercilessness of the Parker blood has evaded me.

I work hard, and my head for figures has seen our profit margins double, but I struggle with the tough decisions.

The team’s happiness and security are more important to me than money.

People should feel appreciated and secure in their workplace, not constantly on edge, waiting to be screwed over.

My mother, however, stepped up after my father’s death superbly.

It is as if she was born to lead. I stand by her side and watch with both awe and terror at some decisions she’s made, praying one day, when the time is mine, that I can lead with a combination of her hardheartedness alongside my empathy to benefit us all.

As I push open the heavy oak door, it swings effortlessly on its hinges.

Light floods the boardroom from the expanse of glass along the back wall, overlooking the perfectly maintained gardens.

The long black glass table surrounded by leather chairs sits empty, except for two familiar figures at the far end.

My mother and Ebony wait for me, their expressions tight, eyes filled with determination.

“What was she doing here?” my mother spits before I even close the door. The ridiculous urge to lie crosses my mind, but I bat it away, knowing it’s pointless.

“Nicky was asking about her designs.” I keep my reply short, hoping to move the conversation beyond her favorite topic of my ex-wife. “She’s gone without them.” Both women cackle, shaking their heads, the prior revulsion morphing to humor.

“She really doesn’t have any morals,” Ebony says, her voice acidic.

“I knew that from the minute I clamped eyes on her,” my mother adds. “Gold digger. Pure and simple.”

Taking a breath, I walk over and sit on the other side of the table from Ebony. There is no point arguing with them, not on this subject. My mother holds court at the top. There is no debate about who is in charge.

“What did you both want to see me about?” I ask, sliding into a chair.

“PR,” Ebony tells me, her tone immediately bright. “Your reputation, to be exact.”

“There is nothing wrong with—” My mother lifts her hand, dismissing my objections immediately. But before she can speak again, Ebony interrupts her.

“Joel, you’re divorced from a convict who stole from your family business.

The local rags are having a field day. We need to clean you up, present a more eloquent approach.

You need to look like a man that has his shit together.

” Ebony smiles, pleased with her summary.

“You need to get out in public. Be seen again. Show everyone you’re living. ”

“That’s the last thing I want to be doing,” I mutter, not liking the direction the conversation is headed.

“I know,” she says, reaching over and placing a hand on mine. “But Imelda has had the most wonderful idea.” She glances at my mother. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. I’ll be your PR partner.”

“No,” I snap, pulling my hand away. “You want me to fix my reputation by pretending to have moved on from my wife?”

“Not exactly,” my mother says, her tone soft but deadly. “We just want you to be seen again, my darling. And Ebony will accompany you for moral support. Rumors are rife you’re near another breakdown, and you remember what happened last time.”

Of course she had to bring up the last time I spiraled. Twist the knife a little more—remind me who's boss. What better way to beat me into submission than by exerting her power?

“Let me help you. You’re my oldest friend, Joel.

Let me walk beside you.” Ebony reaches for my fingers again, but I place them on my lap.

Far enough from her to block any physical contact.

She grimaces a little, obviously unhappy, before replastering a smile on her face.

“If that will be all,” she says, with a nod to my mother.

“I’ll be off. Speak later, Joel.” Then she disappears.

Later that night, my cell rings. I don’t want to speak to anyone. Still in the office, I’m poring over figures instead of going home. Home is too quiet, so I stay here as much as I can. When it rings for a second time, I answer.

“Boss,” Boyd says, his tone sharp. “There has been another issue.”

I sit back in my chair, waiting to hear another long, sordid tale about a client getting out of control at one of our clubs. Another story of justice gone too far.

Boyd heads up security around our nighttime establishments.

He used to report directly to my father; now he reports to me.

As much as the clubs and their dealings make me uncomfortable, it was a part of our world I didn’t want my mother involved in.

So, it landed on my desk. I go there as little as possible.

“Which club?”

“Guilty Secrets. One client got handsy with Missy in the private room. She screamed, and, well, Big Andy showed him the door. He obtained a small knife wound on the way out.”

I groan. That club has been causing me trouble for months.

It’s our most profitable but most hidden establishment.

At Guilty Secrets, we provide high-end entertainment for the rich and famous, some legal and some not so much.

It’s a hive of business dealings and dirty kinks, but it’s lined our family’s pockets for decades.

The complications that come with it are just challenges to be dealt with.

“Boyd, is this your way of telling me I should expect a visit from the police?”

“That is a possibility, sir.”

I cut the call and drop the phone on my desk. Guilty Secrets should be burned to the ground—but shutting it down would mean digging up bodies I’ve tried to forget. And in this family, skeletons never stay buried, not unless someone’s watching.