9. Ryan

CHAPTER 9

Ryan

T o say I've been obsessing about my Cinderella is an understatement. She's all I've been able to think about since that night at the ball. I've replayed every moment, every word, and every touch in my head since that night, trying to find the clues to who she is, but now, nearly a month later, I am no closer to figuring that out.

The next ball is coming up quickly, and I hope she'll be there again. In my heart, I know she will. In my heart, I know this woman is my destiny.

As I pull my car up to my office building, I notice the usual photographers hanging out at the front. Some news outlets dedicate their coverage to following the city's wealthy. My being a forty-year-old bachelor is catnip to them.

This is one of the reasons that I keep the masquerade ball so private. I'm not interested in a gold digger; I want someone who cares only about me, not the money. I don't think that's too much to ask for.

I turn the car at the block ahead of my building and enter a side street that brings me to the underground garage. I park and ride the elevator to my office floor.

The elevator opens onto the top floor of the building. When my father passed away five years ago and left everything to me, one of the first things I did was purchase this building. I considered it a good investment even though the company only used one floor. I rented out the rest of the floors to other corporations. It made a nice income on its own, paying for itself.

Stirling Plumbing and Construction was something my father and I had built together. Unlike many other billionaires, I wasn't born into wealth.

My father was a plumber, just like his father before him. When I was around ten, he got an opportunity to be part of a team doing construction at a huge resort. From there, he networked and sought out high-profile construction jobs. Eventually, he became the go-to contractor in the Traveler Accommodation and Entertainment Complex industry.

After getting my MBA, I joined my father's company, and he taught me everything from the ground up. I even earned my plumber's license.

Today, Stirling Mechanical is the company's new name, and it does more than just plumbing. My father and I shifted the company to mechanical design and building. It was an intelligent decision, and the growth from that is what makes the company what it is today.

Sometimes, though, I can't help but miss the simpler times. Growing up like I did made me appreciate what I have even more.

It upset me that my father included the marriage stipulation in his will. He wasn't the warmest person, especially after Mom died, but with how much they loved each other, I expected more from him as a father.

Beverly, my secretary, rises from her desk and smiles. Her narrow reading glasses appear to grow out of her severe black bob as they rest on her sharp nose. Her tweed skirt suit is freshly pressed as usual. I sigh as I approach, knowing what's waiting for me.

"Good morning, sir," she says.

"Good morning, Beverly. I've told you you don't have to call me sir. You've been working for me since my father retired. What's it been? Seven years?"

"Yes, sir, seven years."

"You can call me Ryan."

She always gives me the same horrified yet confused look whenever we have this conversation. It doesn't change anything. I know she'll always call me sir, but I get a deep enjoyment out of telling her to call me by my first name because of how she always reacts.

I enter my office, where Beverly had previously turned on the lights and placed a cup of coffee made exactly how I like it on my desk. I hope she doesn't follow me, but she is right at my heels.

"Harold Weinberger is on line one. He's been waiting for some time now," she says.

"He can wait longer then. He's only calling because I didn't show up to their monthly meeting yesterday."

"But I cleared your schedule for it, sir."

"I know you did, thank you, but I didn't want to deal with them. I'm under enough pressure."

"Ignoring me isn't going to make that any better."

Harold's baritone voice booms from the doorway. Beverly hops, startled by the sound of his voice, then spins around and rushes to the phone.

Harold was one of my father's closest friends. He's a big man with bright silver hair who acts much younger than his age.

"That's very rude of you," she says. "Tying up the line then deciding you're going to show up anyway."

Harold looks startled, then lets out a loud laugh. He turns to me as she leaves my office.

"Is she for real?" he asks.

"Yes, now take a seat, please," I say as I pat one of the wide leather chairs facing my desk.

Harold slowly turns away from Beverly, who has made her way back to her desk. I cross the room and close the door, signaling to Beverly to hold all my calls.

"She is quite a woman. Did you know she and your father had a relationship?" he asks as I sit in the plush executive chair behind my desk.

"My dad and Beverly? You have to be mistaken. She wouldn't do anything like that. She's too by the book."

"Your father told me. There was nothing taboo about it. This was after he retired."

"After he retired? And to think I thought he just couldn't let go and stop working. He was here all the time. Ends up he was here for her?"

"Woo, the stories he would tell me. This desk, for example…"

I put my hand up. "That's enough, thank you."

"He was always quite the ladies' man. Until your mother tamed him, there wasn't a woman your dad couldn't get."

"That's not always a good thing," I say.

"You know where this is going, don't you?"

I nod. "You're pretty transparent."

He laughs. "You're a lot like him."

"Not in that way. He never understood why I didn't sleep with just anyone. And based on his will, he didn't care."

"Now that's not true. He cared a lot. He didn't want to see you end up alone, though."

"So forcing me to get married is the only option?"

Harold shrugs. "He did what he thought was right. Consider yourself lucky he didn't arrange for a wife for you. There's plenty of that happening as we speak."

"In this day and age? You've got to be kidding me. I wouldn't go through with it."

"Even for your inheritance?"

"You know the answer to that."

He nods slowly as he lets out a long breath. "I've been hearing it for the last five years. You know this is coming to an end one way or the another. The trustees aren't happy that you didn't show up yesterday."

I sigh and lean back in my chair, then rest my feet on the edge of the desk. I throw my hands up behind my head.

"I met her, Harold. I met the woman I'm going to marry."

"Well, that's great news, Ryan! I would think you'd want to share that with the trustees. When's the wedding?"

"Not so fast. I don't even know her name yet."

Harold groans as he shakes his head.

"She's not fictional, is she? You didn't meet her in that store on 42nd, did you? You know, in a box, and she needs to be inflated." He rubs his forehead with his hand as a pained look crosses his face. "Your father always warned me you were a romantic."

"She exists, Harold," I say, sitting up to glare at him. "This is exactly why I didn't attend your meeting yesterday."

"Alright, fine then, Ryan. You met her, you don't even know her name, but you're going to marry her before your birthday in less than six months. Is that right?"

"Yes. She was at the last masquerade ball. I'm hoping she comes to the next one this weekend."

"Don't you keep a guest list?" he asks.

"I do, but it doesn't seem like she was on it. I combed through everything. I have one lead, the car she left in, and so far, that didn't give me anything."

"Okay, so she's not fictional, she's a ghost."

I stand up, ready to ask Harold to leave, when Beverly knocks and then opens the door.

"Line one, sir," she says. "You'll want to take this."

I wrinkle my brow at her, and she shoos my look with a wave before pointing at the phone sternly. I pick it up and turn my back to Harold.

"Ryan Stirling," I say.

"Oh hey, buddy. This is Mel Schwartz. I thought you'd like to know that guy showed up again. He's renting a car for this Saturday."

I spin on my heel and grab a pen and a notepad. Saturday is the night of the ball.

"Did you get a name this time? See his car? Anything?"

"Nah, but the security cameras were going this time. I have the tape if ya wanna see it. I haven't watched it yet."

"I'll be there in half an hour," I say.

I hang up the phone and see Beverly and Harold looking at me expectantly.

"I have a lead," I say as I grab my jacket off the coat rack and walk out the door.

When I arrive at Schwartz Luxury Autos, Mel is outside waiting for me. He claps his hands together and grins as I approach.

"Good to see ya," he says. "I called you as soon as he left, but I haven't watched the video myself. I was waitin' for ya."

"Thanks, Mel. Let's watch it."

I follow him into the garage and to a small office in the back with a desktop computer. He connects everything to make the video viewable.

As we watch the video, I realize this is a waste of time. The man who booked the car made sure to stay out of the camera's sight line. The only thing I could see was the back of his head, which was covered with a hat.

"Oh man, I'm sorry to drag ya out here for nothin'," he says. "I should've looked at the tape first."

"It's alright, at least now I know she should be there Saturday. Do you remember anything else about the guy this time?"

Mel slowly strokes his chin. "Nah, I told ya everything before. White hair, nice suit, very proper. Even the accent."

"Accent? You didn't mention that before."

"Oh yeah, one of those stuffy English accents you only hear in the movies. I tried talking with him to see if I could learn anything, but he wasn't having it."

"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter since I can't see him in the video to see if he's familiar. Will he be taking the same car as last time?"

"Yup, he specifically requested it."

"Good, that helps." I reach into my pocket, pull out a folded hundred-dollar bill, and hand it to Mel. "That's for any trouble. I appreciate you helping me, Mel."

He grins, takes the money, then shoves it into his pocket. "Anytime, boss. And if you ever need a car, remember Schwartz Luxury Autos. Use the Schwartz."

Knowing the car she will arrive in at the ball, I plan to wait outside for her. I've waited long enough to see her again. I'm not going to risk missing her.

As I walk towards my car, I see a teenage boy with jet-black hair in jeans and a bright green puffer jacket leaning against my car. He's skinny, has AirPods in his ears, and shouldn't be touching my Maserati. His face is in his phone, but as I approach, he slides the phone into his jacket pocket and grins at me.

"Excuse me," I say as my car automatically unlocks.

"I know you," he says with a grin.

"Okay," I say, opening my car door and hoping that's the end of the conversation.

"You don't want to know why I'm here?"

For the past five years, women have been throwing themselves at me because of my inheritance and the stipulation that I need to get married. It's surprising how little privacy one has nowadays. A teenage boy is a new twist, and while some men my age might quake with fear that this was some long-lost child, I have no concerns about that.

Still, I wonder what this boy is doing here. Was he put up to it by a desperate mother? An aunt? It doesn't matter; I have no interest in whoever it is. My heart belongs to one woman, even if I don't know her name.

I ignore the question and pull the car door closed. As I press the button to start the engine, he slaps his hand against the window.

What is his problem?

I turn to look at the kid. He has his phone facing me as he points to it. It's a picture of me with my princess at the masquerade ball. I lower the window to hear what he has to say.

"That's you, isn't it?" he asks. When I don't answer, he chews the inside of his cheek and then nods. "Yeah, that's you. I thought so." He turns the phone back to him. "I never understood why no one recognized you under the mask. That's like some Clark Kent shit, I guess."

I don't like this kid. He's hitting a nerve that tells me all I need to know about him. He's money-motivated, probably a liar, and he knows how to manipulate people. I know I should get away from him as fast as I can, but seeing that picture from the ball makes me stupid.

"Is there something I can help you with?" I ask.

"No, I got all the help I need. But I think there's something I can help you with."

"And that is?"

"Her."

"What about her?" I ask.

"That's why you're here, isn't it? I mean, you didn't come down here just to rub elbows with us poor people, did you? You tracked her car here and thought you could find out more. But you didn't, did you? I'm right, right? I know I'm right."

He's too cocky, even if he is right.

"And who are you?" I ask.

"Let's just say I'm a friend."

"A friend who wants something." I put the car into drive.

"No, man. You got it all wrong; I don't want anything, not from you, at least. I don't double dip. That's fine, run away. I get paid either way."

I have no idea what he's saying, but I know I should leave. While his voice is sincere, there's something else in his demeanor that tells me he's not here to be a Boy Scout. I stop the car.

"Then why are you here?" I ask.

"Because someone wants you to find out who she is." He gives his phone a slight shake. "I don't usually pay attention to this celebrity kind of stuff, but if someone pays me enough, I will.

"I'm not a celebrity."

"Out here you are. From plumber to billionaire? That's enough to make the papers."

"It's not that simple."

"Nothing ever is," he says, showing a wisdom that only a street kid of his age would know. "Of course, you got lucky with your dad. This is my legacy." He points to the demolition junkyard next door, and his shoulders slump.

This has gone on long enough. I turn off the car and get out. I need to know what he knows. Standing in front of the boy, I put my hands on his shoulders and look directly into his eyes.

"Who is she?" I growl.

"No one, you know," he says as he points to the photo on his phone again. "I was told her name is Carina Cameron."

"And how do you know her?" I take my hands off him, then step back a few feet from him.

"I don't. I was given her name and a couple of other pieces of information."

"Then what else do you know?"

"C'mon man, do I look like I know everything? All I know is she goes to the hospital in midtown every day, and she works as a waitress at John's."

"And how do I know this is true?"

"You don't," he says. "You're going to have to just believe me. Or don't. I really don't care either way."

"Who told you all of this?"

"Now, that's none of your business. I don't squeal," he says before walking away.

I don't chase him; it's a waste of my time. He doesn't know anything else and won't tell me who gave him the information. There is no reason to waste more time with him.

With all of my excitement about getting her name, I didn't realize I didn't ask which of the three Midtown hospitals she went to or why she went there. Is she working there, too? Is she sick? I have no idea.

I can't let the information I have go to waste, so I head towards the hospital closest to John's Restaurant. As I walk through the lobby, I notice some people turning their heads to look at me. It's funny being somewhat of a celebrity, especially when it's for nothing.

The front desk is in the center of the lengthy lobby area with rows of elevators behind it. There's a tall counter that looks empty. As I reach the desk a tiny woman with wild gray curly hair looks up from her seat.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

"Yes, I'm looking for Carina Cameron. I was told she comes here every day."

She tilts her head as she looks at me, then she turns to the computer and slowly begins to type the name.

"Is that Carina with a K or C?"

"I'm not sure. Can you try it with both?"

One eyebrow shoots upward as she looks at me and then down at her computer. She begins to shake her head.

"And she's a patient here?" she asks.

"Well, I'm not sure about that either."

She sits back in her chair and places her hands on top of the desk in front of her, her arms straightened.

"Well, then, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to help you. I can't just give you information. If you're here to visit the patient, that's one thing."

"Well, maybe she works here."

"Well, maybe you're some kind of psycho stalker," she says as she folds her arms over her chest.

"A stalker? No, no. It's not like that at all."

"Well then, what is it like?" she asks.

"You see, we met at a party, and she and I really hit it off, but she had to leave at midnight, and I've been trying to find her since."

"Mmm hmm. Not a stalker, and oh, by the way, her name is Cinderella. " she deadpans.

Even as I speak the words, I can hear what she's hearing. I apologize and leave. I need to be grateful that I at least have her name. I can't go to every hospital in the area looking for her when I only know her name.

I get back in my car and drive over to John's restaurant. I park across the street from the building and wait. I can see enough through the windows to know she's not working.

I wait, turning my car on intermittently for warmth, but I never see her even after the shift is done.

She's going to the ball, which is only a few days away. If it means standing outside in the cold, waiting for her car to arrive so that I won't lose a minute with her, then that's precisely what I will do.