The Trillionaire Chapter Four: The Worst People Have Relatives Too

Once Tori agreed to meet her father, events moved much faster than they had between New Mexico and New York.

Mr. Kenton's office handled everything.

There were telephone calls, signatures, explanations Tori only half understood, and an emergency passport application that the firm had already begun preparing in anticipation that she might agree to travel. Because she was an emancipated minor, her situation required additional documentation, all of which the firm's staff seemed prepared to produce before Tori even knew she needed it.

That bothered her.

Everything had been arranged around a decision she hadn't yet made.

Once she made it, however, there seemed to be no stopping the machinery.

The firm rescheduled her hospital appointment in New Mexico, arranged transportation, and brought her directly from Manhattan to an airport outside the city.

There, Tori discovered she wasn't flying commercial.

A private jet waited for her.

She stopped beside the car.

"That's the plane?"

Mr. Kenton looked at it.

"Yes."

Tori stared.

Until yesterday, she had been sneaking onto a school bus because she couldn't afford transportation into town.

Now somebody expected her to cross the Atlantic in a Gulfstream.

She wasn't sure whether to be impressed or frightened.

Before she boarded, Kenton introduced her to a broad-shouldered man named Harris, who worked for a private security company retained by her father.

Something about him looked familiar.

Tori stared at his face.

Then she realized.

"You were at the airport."

Harris didn't answer immediately.

"In Albuquerque."

Still nothing.

"And New York."

Mr. Kenton intervened.

"Mr. Muller requested that security accompany you during your travel."

Tori looked between them.

"You were following me?"

"Keeping an eye on you," Kenton corrected.

"Without telling me."

"It was considered prudent."

"By who?"

"Your father's representatives."

Tori's stomach tightened.

The revelation did not make her feel protected.

It made her feel watched.

She boarded anyway.

Only after the plane was airborne did Tori fully comprehend what she'd agreed to. She was fifteen years old, crossing an ocean with people she had met less than twenty-four hours earlier to meet a father she hadn't known existed.

She looked down at the clouds.

Her mother would have lost her mind.

That thought stayed with her for most of the flight.

They landed outside Stockholm at a small executive airport rather than the enormous international terminal Tori had expected. Customs formalities were handled there, and another black car waited beyond the terminal.

The drive took them farther from the city.

Tori watched unfamiliar countryside pass outside the window until an iron gate appeared ahead.

Beyond it stood the largest house she had ever seen.

Calling it a house seemed ridiculous.

The place looked like something governments surrendered after losing wars.

A gray-haired man waited near the entrance.

"Victoria."

Tori disliked him before he finished saying her name.

"I am Pieter Peeters."

He offered his hand.

Tori looked at it.

Then at him.

Peeters withdrew it without embarrassment.

"Come."

Apparently introductions were finished.

He led her through the house.

Tori barely had time to process any of it—the stone floors, enormous paintings, ceilings high enough to swallow the entire trailer she lived in. People moved quietly around them, carrying trays, laundry, and medical equipment.

"Your father is exhausted," Peeters said.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Several things."

"Is he dying?"

Peeters looked at her.

"Yes."

That answer, at least, was straightforward.

Tori tried to imagine the man waiting upstairs.

She pictured somebody around her mother's age. Maybe older. A middle-aged man in a sweater, perhaps, with gray in his beard. Somebody resembling the fathers she'd seen dropping kids off at school.

Peeters opened the bedroom door.

Tori stopped.

There were several people in the room. Two appeared to be nurses. Another was adjusting medical equipment.

And in the center of it all, propped against pillows in an enormous bed, was an old man.

Not an older man.

An old man.

Tori looked at Peeters.

Then back at the bed.

"That's him?"

Peeters seemed almost amused.

"Yes."

Tori approached slowly.

Erik Muller appeared to be well into his eighties. His face was thin, his skin nearly translucent in places. For someone surrounded by extraordinary wealth, he looked terribly mortal.

Tori forced herself to smile.

"Hi."

Muller studied her.

There was no recognition in his expression.

No wonder.

No affection.

If anything, he looked disappointed.

He said something quietly to Peeters in another language.

"What did he say?"

Peeters ignored the question.

Muller finally addressed her in English.

"You resemble her."

"My mother?"

He closed his eyes.

Apparently the conversation had exhausted him.

Tori stood there feeling stupid.

She had crossed an ocean for that?

One of the doctors approached.

"Miss Pontius, perhaps we should discuss why Mr. Muller was particularly anxious to locate you."

Tori looked toward the bed.

"I thought he wanted to meet me."

"He did."

The doctor hesitated.

"But Mr. Muller is also undergoing an experimental treatment intended to manage complications associated with his condition. His physicians have been investigating whether blood components from a close biological relative could be useful as part of that treatment."

Tori stared at him.

There it was.

Of course.

"You're kidding."

"No."

"You brought me here for my blood?"

"Your father wanted to meet you as well."

"That's not what I asked."

The doctor glanced toward Peeters.

That was enough.

Tori stepped backward.

"No."

"Miss Pontius—"

"No."

Nobody had mentioned this in New York.

Nobody had mentioned needles.

Nobody had mentioned treatment.

Nobody had mentioned that the mysterious father who desperately wanted to meet his only child might also have a medical use for her.

Peeters spoke calmly.

"No procedure will take place without the appropriate consent."

"Good."

Tori backed toward the door.

"Then I don't consent."

She left.

Behind her, several people began speaking at once.

Nobody physically stopped her.

They didn't have to.

Tori made it halfway down the main staircase before Peeters appeared above her.

"Victoria."

She kept walking.

"Would you at least consider remaining overnight?"

Tori stopped.

She was thousands of miles from home.

She had no idea where the airport was.

She didn't speak Swedish.

She didn't know how much money she had in her wallet, but it certainly wasn't enough for a flight to New Mexico.

"Do I have a flight home?"

"One can be arranged."

"When?"

"Tomorrow, if that remains your decision."

Tori looked at him.

She didn't trust the qualification.

If that remains your decision.

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

Peeters gestured toward a woman already waiting at the top of the stairs.

Tori hated how prepared everyone was.

Still, she followed.

Her room was larger than the trailer.

There was an enormous bed, a private bathroom, thick curtains, and furniture Tori was afraid to touch.

She put her backpack beside the bed.

Then she sat.

Of all the places she'd slept in her life, this was unquestionably the nicest.

She had never wanted to go home more badly.

Breakfast arrived the following morning on a silver tray.

Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Fresh orange juice.

Tori had expected rich people to eat differently.

Apparently breakfast was still breakfast.

Peeters entered several minutes later without knocking.

Tori immediately disliked him more.

"These accommodations are comfortable?"

"I'm leaving today."

Peeters pulled out a chair.

"We were sorry to learn of your mother's death."

Tori stopped eating.

"Don't."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't get to talk about her like you knew her."

Peeters considered this.

"Actually, I did."

Tori looked up.

That changed things.

"How?"

"Your mother spent time in Europe many years ago."

Tori put down her fork.

"Here?"

"Among other places."

"My mother knew him?"

"Obviously."

"She never told me."

Peeters gave a small shrug.

"Lesley concealed many aspects of her life."

Tori stood.

She didn't like hearing her mother's name in his mouth.

Peeters continued.

"Your father did not knowingly abandon you, if that is what you believe."

Tori went to the wardrobe and pulled out the clothes she'd worn the previous day. Someone had washed and pressed them overnight.

"Then where was he?"

"How could he have known where you were?"

That stopped her.

Tori turned.

Peeters watched her carefully.

"Your mother disappeared."

"She didn't disappear. She lived in New Mexico."

"Eventually."

"What does that mean?"

"It means the history you were given may not be complete."

Tori didn't answer.

Peeters stood.

"Your mother and Mr. Muller had a brief relationship. She left without informing him that she was pregnant. By the time he had reason to suspect that a child existed, she had become exceedingly difficult to locate."

Tori felt anger rising.

"Don't blame her."

"I am explaining events."

"You're insulting her."

Peeters's expression barely changed.

"Those are not necessarily the same thing."

Tori took her clothes into the bathroom and slammed the door.

She dressed quickly.

When she emerged, Peeters was still there.

"Why would I give blood to somebody who did nothing for us?"

"Perhaps because what you believe he did and what he actually knew are two different matters."

"I don't care."

That wasn't completely true.

Tori hated that it wasn't completely true.

She grabbed her backpack.

"I want my ticket home."

Peeters looked at her for several seconds.

"I will have transportation arranged."

"When?"

"As soon as practicable."

"No. When?"

His silence answered the question.

Tori walked out.

She made it through the house and onto the front drive.

Nobody stopped her.

That frightened her almost as much as being stopped would have.

Outside, the air was bitterly cold.

Tori had dressed for New Mexico, not Sweden. Within minutes, her arms were covered in goosebumps.

She continued walking.

The estate seemed endless.

The gate she remembered driving through was somewhere beyond a bend in the road, farther away than she'd realized.

A car approached from behind.

Peeters.

The window lowered.

"Get in."

"No."

"The nearest town is several kilometers away."

"I'll walk."

"You have no coat."

"I noticed."

Peeters exhaled.

"I will arrange your return flight. Come back inside."

"Today?"

"Yes."

Tori stopped walking.

"You're lying."

"No."

"Then take me to the airport."

"Your flight has not been arranged yet."

Tori stood beside the road, shivering.

For the first time, she understood the position she had put herself in.

Nobody needed to lock a door.

Nobody needed to threaten her.

They had brought her to a foreign country, onto a private estate, miles from anywhere she knew, with transportation and money controlled almost entirely by them.

She had technically agreed to everything.

That didn't make her feel free.

"What do you want?" she asked.

Peeters looked at her.

"You know what your father wants."

Tori understood.

The warmth of the car suddenly felt less like hospitality than leverage.

She got in.

Back at the mansion, Tori demanded to speak directly with the physician before agreeing to anything.

For once, somebody answered her questions.

The collection would be limited. She would be screened first. The doctor explained the risks and made clear that she could refuse.

Tori almost did.

Then Peeters produced confirmation of a return flight scheduled for the following morning.

Tori stared at it.

She knew exactly what was happening.

Nobody said the ticket depended on her cooperation.

Nobody needed to.

Tori signed.

She hated herself for signing.

During the collection, her father lay nearby.

He never thanked her.

He barely looked at her.

That hurt more than the needle.

When it was finished, Tori returned to her room and lay on the enormous bed.

The mansion remained active well into the night. Footsteps passed through the corridors. Doors opened and closed. Staff moved through the house without ever seeming to inhabit it.

Tori had never felt more alone.

At home, she had lived in the poorest trailer in a poor trailer park. People argued outside.

Dogs barked. Somebody's engine was always failing. Neighbors borrowed cigarettes, food, tools, and money they couldn't repay.

But people looked at her.

They spoke to her.

They knew her name.

Here, servants lowered their eyes when she approached. They answered questions as briefly as possible and disappeared.

The mansion contained everything Tori had once associated with having escaped poverty.

Beautiful furniture.

Good food.

Clean clothes.

Cars.

Doctors.

Money enough that apparently nobody ever needed to discuss what anything cost.

And Tori hated it.

Her trailer had never looked more like home.

The following morning, Tori dressed before anyone could come for her.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

Yesterday frightened her.

Not because someone had physically forced her to do anything.

That would have been easier to understand.

What frightened her was how efficiently they had arranged circumstances until the choice they wanted became the easiest way out.

No chains.

No locked doors.

Just distance, money, dependence, and the constant implication that cooperation would make everything simpler.

Tori had spent her life thinking rich people possessed freedom.

Now she understood that money could also purchase control over the environment in which other people made their choices.

She picked up her backpack.

Today she was going home.

If Peeters tried to delay her again, she had a plan. She would demand a telephone. She would contact the American embassy or police. She would tell somebody outside the estate

exactly where she was.

She opened the bedroom door.

Something was wrong.

Staff hurried through the hallway. Two people were speaking urgently near the stairs.

Tori stepped into their path.

"What happened?"

Both fell silent.

They moved around her.

"Hey."

Neither answered.

Tori followed the commotion toward her father's bedroom.

The door opened.

Peeters emerged.

His composure remained intact, but something about his face had changed.

"What happened?"

Peeters looked at her.

"Your father suffered an acute medical crisis during the night."

Tori's stomach tightened.

"Is he okay?"

"No."

Peeters paused.

"Mr. Muller is dead."

Tori stared at him.

For several seconds, she felt nothing.

Then she looked past him toward the bedroom.

She had known her father for less than two days.

She had disliked him almost immediately.

He had used her.

He had barely spoken to her.

And somehow, impossibly, she felt grief beginning to form anyway.

Not for the father she had known.

For the father she never would.