turn her over in my hands. âTheyâre grââ
The bottom-heavy rock falls from my hands and shatters the glass table, startling the room. Shards scatter all over the carpet. I bend quickly to pick up the sculpture and nick my middle finger.
Dad retrieves and inspects the stone, while I apply pressure to my small cut with my thumb. With the lift of his brows, lines crease from one temple to the other. âWell, that was money well spent. Not a scratch.â
âSorry about the table,â I say, moving for the housekeeper.
âDoesnât matter.â Dad pulls me aside and sets the stone on another table. A waitress passes by with champagne flutes and he takes two. âTo you, and the performance you gave me over the summer.â
Tension flowers open in my chest and breathes in relief. I smile. âThank you.â
âI have to admit, I didnât expect you to do so well.â
âDespite what you think, Iâve actually paid attention over the years.â
He holds up a hand, palm facing me, his mouth set in a line. âI didnât expect Jacob to do so well either.â
Itâs as if Iâve dropped the second sculpture right into my stomach. âYouâre actually considering . . . Dad,â I gust out on a breath.
What am I doing? Fighting for a company I donât want? Because this no longer feels like fighting to keep Jacob out of it. I killed myself this summer to prove my worth. For my father. A man lost his restaurant. Jacob and I sacrificed what little of our friendship there was to lose.
Dad sighs and glances around. He lowers his voice to say, âYouâre the man I wanted. But Jacobâs the man I want. Iâm sorry, son.â
He pats my arm and shoulders past me.
I canât move. Canât breathe. Iâm an iceberg breaking from a centuries-old home in a calm sea. My arm falls and my fingers let loose the full glass of champagne. The flute
thunks
on the carpet.
I lost everything.
Mitch appears to my right, thick brows pinched. âHe didnât choose you, did he?â
I shake my head, my jaw clenched too tight to respond any other way. My body temperature rises and my tense muscles vibrate more with every passing second. I need to sink my fist into something solid.
Mitch glances around the room. âYou know what would make you feel better?â
âJacob,â I say, following his train of thought. I have frustrations like Iâve never experienced before, and I know just where they should land. That motherfucker played dirty. Why shouldnât I, now that I have nothing left to protect? âWhere is he?â
Ella appears behind Mitch, apparently having heard every word. âI saw him go upstairs right before the toast.â
Mitch slaps my shoulder and nods toward the staircase. âGive him a good welcome-to-the-company greeting for both of us. Unless you want some help?â
âFuck no. Heâs mine.â
He nods. âWant us to pack you a bag or anything? Youâll need to leave right after. You can stay with us.â
âNo, but I might take you up on that offer. Dadâs going to kick me out for this.â
Ella smiles. âYouâre welcome to stay as long as you need.â
âGo,â Mitch says. âEnjoy.â
Several guests try stopping me with birthday wishes as I walk past, but my rage is too focused. I canât hear anything other than the heartbeat thrumming past my ears. I think Dad calls my name, but I canât be sure.
I donât remember making it up the stairs, or how many steps I take down the hallway until sounds finally start to register. Familiar sounds. Itâs the ball all over again. Muffled cries. Sobbed pleas. Cursed threats.
Each step forward lengthens in stride until Iâm running into
my
home office.
My
personal space. The last thing I expect to ever see behind that door is a woman bent over
my
desk. Sheâs one