Текст книги "Hudson"

Автор книги: Laurelin Paige

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That reasoning resonates with me. Alayna Withers did not strike me as someone who lived in fear. Why did she get her degree in the first place? Because she wanted to make the club her own makes sense. She has drive. She has ambition. That was obvious in her presentation. My original shock at her choice of employment has been replaced with complete respect. This I can support. I want to help her reach that goal. It’s admirable.

“But the arrest isn’t the big thing.” Celia brings me back from my thoughts with an enthusiasm that threatens to be contagious. “The cause of it is. She has a mental health history.”

I turn once more to the papers in my lap and settle on the last section of documents. They consist of doctors’ records, outpatient reports, a certificate of rehabilitation completion. It only takes a few minutes for me to puzzle out her history. Alayna Withers has a compulsive disorder most likely aggravated by the death of both her parents at a young age. She specifically targets her obsessive tendencies on men and relationships, leading to socially abnormal behavior such as stalking, vandalism, and disorderly conduct. According to her rehab report, she’s been recovered for the past two years—a similar timeline to my own.

There’s a part of me that’s appalled by this information. The woman that stood in front of us at Stern was not fragile. She was confident and put together and in control. But I remember that strong sense that there was something more underneath her façade. I realize now that I had so easily recognized it because her carriage was so familiar. Strong on the outside, battling demons on the inside—she was, in so many ways, like me.

I close my eyes and massage the bridge of my nose. Is that the nature of my attraction? A kinship with this woman? I don’t believe it’s that simple, but, with this new information, I am beyond fascinated with her. I’ve often questioned if there was any recovery for someone like me. Can I really get better? Do I have any hope for a full and healthy life?

Celia was right. I want to experiment with this one more than any other she’s tempted me with in the last two years. Our objectives, though, are in opposition. I can easily guess the nature of Celia’s planned game. She wants to see if she can cause the subject to break again. See if Alayna will return to her past behaviors when pushed.

I, on the other hand, do not want to see Alayna Withers break. I want to see her survive. Because if she can, then maybe so can I.

I’m decided now. I won’t let Alayna out of my sight. I will pursue her. I will study her. I will not play her.

And so it’s time to make sure Celia doesn’t either.

I shut the folder, stand, and hand it back to Celia. “This is not a game we’re playing.” My tone informs her that this is a closed subject.

Celia stands with a sigh. “That’s too bad. I had a great scenario. We’d pretend that our parents want us to marry—best lies are closest to the truth, as you always say.” In this case, it is the truth. “Your mother believes you’ll never love anyone so you best marry me. You hire Alayna to be your girlfriend. To convince your parents to leave your romantic life alone. With all the pretending, the girl will fall for you. The scheme will end and we see what happens. Intriguing, no?”

I shake my head. “We’re not playing.”

“It would give you an excuse to get close to her. Don’t deny that you want to. I can read you too, Hudson.”

Without looking at her, I motion to the exit. “We’re done here, Celia.”

She sets her water bottle on the coffee table and starts for the door. “You’re done, Hudson,” she says as she crosses the room. “I’m not. I can play her without you.” She turns back to face me. “But be assured, I will play her.”

“Not this one, Celia. Find another play.” I’m admitting too much interest in Alayna. It can’t be helped.

“Yes, this one. The game’s already in motion.”

Panic grips me. Of course, I don’t show it, except for maybe in the tightening of my jaw. “What have you done?”

She’s triumphant, but she hides it as well as I hide my emotions. I only see it in the slight widening of her eyes. “I made an offer on the club.”

I’m immediately put at ease. “There’s been no time. The owner can’t have accepted already.” I don’t tell her that I’ll counter.

Celia lifts her chin to deliver her next words. “I told him my offer was good for an hour. He’s had no bites in the year that he’s had it up for sale. He accepted on the spot.”

Fuck!

How did I not see this a mile away? I’ve grown rusty in my time gone while Celia’s grown more calculating. She correctly assumed my weakness in this situation and secured her capital in advance of her approach. Fucking brilliant.

I don’t even consider that she’s lying. She knows I’ll check on her declaration the moment she’s left and she wouldn’t risk that bluff. Besides, our code has taught us to be honest whenever possible. Practically, it helps keep your lies straight. Also, it makes the games more challenging.

I’m not sure how to move next—that’s a rarity for me. I stall for time with a question that might provide me some insight. “Why?” I tilt my head, examining her. “Why do you care if it’s this girl or the next?”

“Because you care if it’s this girl.” It’s not said with spite. It’s honest. It’s raw.

I want to hate her in that moment. I want to loathe the way she’s trapped me, the way she’s baited me. The way she’s already destroyed something that interests me like the child on the playground that stomps on the butterfly simply because another child has given it his attention. It’s mean.

But I can’t hate her. She doesn’t intend to be vicious. I’m the one who schooled her to look for vulnerabilities and manipulate them to be advantageous. She knows no other way to connect.

Frankly, I don’t know any other way myself. There is a longing for that deep within me. Dr. Alberts hasn’t even begun to scrape the surface of that desire, but it is the one thing that keeps me from being completely sociopathic. I don’t care for people, but I want to.

That’s all Celia wants as well. “If you agree to play, I’ll let you buy my offer out.” She blinks. “Simple as that.”

With her checkmate, the ball is in my court. I could still walk away. But Celia will play Alayna Withers. It’s not a question in my mind. She’s never backed down from a scheme once she’s started it.

Then why should I care? I’ve let Celia play others since I’ve left our partnership, Stacy being the most recent example. I never made a move to stop that. Why should I now?

But I’ve already answered that. Because I’m intrigued. I’m bewitched. I’m beguiled. I am obsessed. Maybe this is the best chance to get close to Alayna. And even if I played the game, I wouldn’t have to work toward Celia’s outcome. I could work toward my own—to not break Alayna. It’s the biggest of excuses, but there’s nothing in the code about lying to ourselves.

There are other ways to fight Celia, I know. If I really tried, I could come up with another way to thwart her plans.

Knowing that is why I am completely culpable when I surrender so easily. There will be no battle. I will not counter Celia’s sly move. I will not attempt to dissuade her from her game. I will not make another appointment with Dr. Alberts. I will not fight.

“How much is your offer on The Sky Launch?”

With a smirk, she gives me the information.

I square my shoulders. If I’m going down, I’ll at least do it with pride. “I’ll have my financial advisor draw up the check.”

“Game on, then?”

My agenda is without point now. Even if Alayna Withers teaches me that people like us can survive, with this step, I’ve already proven that I can’t.

I seal my entrance to hell with my assent. “Game on.”

Chapter Five

Before

“…and if Sherry doesn’t tell him that she likes him, then he’s going to end up with Marisa. Which is just wrong. Lance should be with Sherry. Don’t you think?” Mirabelle poked my bare thigh with her toe. “Are you listening to me, Hudson?”

“I am not.” Usually I didn’t mind Mirabelle’s babble about her friends, simply because the psychology of early teens and their so-called relationships was fascinating. But on this day, I had my own psychology I was working through, namely the psychology of Celia.

Mirabelle huffed in the deck chair next to me “You could at least pretend.”

Though evening was approaching, the day was still warm. I’d yet to change from my trunks after my earlier laps in the pool. By now, the sun had dried them and my skin glistened from the sun’s rays. This was one of my favorite pastimes this summer—soaking and simmering. Soaking in the rays while I simmered over my project.

“I could pretend,” I said. “I didn’t feel that was fair. If you want to keep chattering, that’s fine with me.” I moved my sunglasses down to the edge of my nose to look at her straight on. “But if you do, know that you’re talking to yourself.”

Mirabelle let out a sound of exasperation. “You are so mean!” Then she stormed off toward the house.

I’d thought I’d been pretty patient, actually. I could have told her to shut the fuck up, and I didn’t. I looked at my watch. It was nearly six. I gave my mother seven minutes before she came out to scold me for picking on my little sister, on the day of her big party, no less. The berating hadn’t even occurred yet and I was already tuning Sophia out. She’d probably already be half-drunk and half-bitch. Strike that, half-drunk and full-bitch. It was my mother, after all.

The party wasn’t really as big as she liked to pretend. Not by Hamptons’ standards—twenty families, various friends of my parents, including, of course, the Werners. Any minute Warren and Madge would show up with Celia. They were always the first to arrive at our end-of-summer parties. That meant I had very little time to finalize the details of that evening’s part of my project. And as September was just beginning, I had only a handful of days to bring the entire experiment to an end.

I pushed my sunglasses into place and lay back down. I’d come far with Celia since I’d begun my study, though the progress was slow. Taking Mirabelle’s advice to get to know The Subject, I’d spent hours upon hours with Celia. We’d played tennis almost daily and I’d taken her sailing on more than one occasion. She was maintaining her long-distance relationship with Dirk, and I let her talk about him to her heart’s desire. I encouraged their affair, praised the silly tokens of love he sent her on a weekly basis, repeatedly remarked on the positive effect he’d seemed to have on her.

My interest and support put her at ease. She’d let her guard down.

And then I’d slipped in.

Subtly, I’d begun making comments that insinuated a feeling of envy on my part. First, of couples in general. “People in love are so lucky to have found each other,” I’d say. Then I moved to envy of her and Dirk specifically. “You and he are lucky to have found each other.” More recently, my allusion of envy transferred to only Dirk. “He’s lucky to have found you.”

Accompanied with a look of longing, that last one hit the nail on the head. How could she not believe I wanted her?

Nothing I’d said had been a lie—I didn’t profess an emotion that I didn’t feel. I’d simply manipulated the truth to appear otherwise. In some unexplainable way, I believed the omission of a lie kept my integrity. It also made the experiment more valid. Lies tainted the sample. Lies were easy.

My attempt to woo didn’t rely only on words. I’d learned in earlier experiments that touch was an easy way to get closer to a subject. With Celia, I’d ignored the boundaries of personal space, brushing against her at every opportunity, casually stroking her skin whenever possible.

My actions had an effect on her. Her gaze lingered on me longer and longer, and soon she made her own excuses to touch me. Finally, after two months had passed, I made my big move. On the doorstep of the Werner’s Hampton home, I’d leaned in for a kiss. She lifted her chin to meet me, wetting her lips as I slowly made my descent.

Half an inch from her mouth, I’d pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” I had said with as much heaviness as I could lay in my words. “This is wrong. I’m sorry.” I’d hurried to my car and raced off, her voice chasing after me to stop. I’d left her wanting. I’d left her yearning. For me.

Then I didn’t call or see her for two weeks. The distance had an air of douche about it, but with the event of a broken kiss preceding it, I believed my behavior would seem understandable. Gallant, even. I hadn’t wanted to destroy her relationship with Dirk, so I’d removed myself from her presence. Or, that was the scenario I’d attempted to create anyway.

Celia had tried to contact me, despite my withdrawal. But I’d refused every call and managed to avoid her visits to the house. Tonight would be the end of our “break.” It was seemingly forced—both of us were expected at the party—but I had carefully planned my pursuit to escalate to this very evening. I felt confident about the set-up, yet there were still variables. Would she be angry with me? Relieved to see me again? Would she pretend our last encounter never happened? The variables didn’t concern me. Their unpredictability was what made the experiment fun.

Approaching footsteps sounded over the stone walk to the pool. Here comes Sophia. Right on time.

I removed my sunglasses and sat up to face my mother’s wrath.

But it wasn’t Sophia. It was Celia. Even better.

I stood to meet her.

She balled her dainty fists and propped them on her hips. “Don’t you think about going anywhere, Hudson Pierce. You’re trapped tonight. You have to talk to me whether you want to or not.”

Her tone said frustrated. Heated, for sure, but not angry.

Interesting.

I decided I’d be the one to play that nothing happened. “I’m not going anywhere, Ceeley,” I said, purposefully using my childhood nickname for her. “I was merely standing to greet you.”

She frowned, disbelief on her face. “Next you’re going to pretend you haven’t been avoiding me for two weeks.”

I shook my head and shrugged, my gaze drifting behind her to nothing specific. It was a posture I’d perfected—dramatic and aloof. “Nah, I’m not going to do that.” Then I pinned her with my eyes. “I can’t pretend with you, Ceeley. Not anymore.”

It hadn’t been what I’d planned to say—it was a blatant lie. I’d planned on pretending with her as long as necessary, but as soon as I’d said it, I knew it was what the moment needed.

Celia’s expression confirmed that it was the right thing to say. Her frustration melted off her features and she was left looking soft and off-kilter. “Then let’s not pretend. Let’s talk about this.”

I wasn’t ready for that. If she made a declaration of love or an intention to end things with her boyfriend, I’d be stuck for the rest of the evening playing that I welcomed those things. It was my parents’ fucking garden party. I wouldn’t be able to dump her and leave. And I certainly wasn’t going as far as that would require me to go. I wasn’t planning to even kiss her.

So I deflected. “How about we not talk tonight? Instead we just enjoy one of the last days of summer. We can talk tomorrow. Are you going to the Brookes’ shindig?” I already knew her answer. The Brookes were our age. Twins—Thomas and Christina. Christina was one of Celia’s friends. An entire house full of spoiled rich kids. No supervision. That was the more appropriate setting for the end of my project.

Celia’s mouth turned up in an eager grin. “Of course I’m going. Christina would kick my ass if I didn’t.” She’d been hoping that the reason behind my asking was because I wanted to be alone with her instead.

It wasn’t. “I’m going too. I’ll meet you there. We can slip away when we don’t have our parents breathing down our necks.” I glanced toward the house, indicating how close our parents were at that very moment. “It will give us a chance to…” I hesitated, letting her mind jump to whatever conclusion she preferred before I finished with, “talk.”

“Right.” Her cheeks flushed and I was sure her thoughts had been dirty. “We’ll…talk…then.”

“Good.” I let a brighter than usual smile cross my lips. “I see swimsuit straps under that dress. If you want to get in, I will too.”

We played in the pool for quite a while. Soon other guests arrived and more of our peers joined us. Christina Brooke flirted with me, as she often did, though I refrained from returning the attention the way I normally would. There were several other attractive girls there as well—some that I’d even fucked on occasion. On any other night, I would have picked one and banged her behind the poolhouse.

But tonight Celia was there. Tonight the experiment was more important. So I ignored the eyes the other girls gave me, and I made sure to keep my focus on The Subject throughout the night. I wanted to be sure that she noticed I was looking, that she assumed I was attracted to her physically, though I wasn’t. It wasn’t that Celia wasn’t pretty. Quite the contrary. She’d been a beautiful girl that had grown into an even more beautiful woman over the year we’d been apart. Her curves had filled out—her hips were full, her waist slight. Her breasts were on the small side, but firm under her bikini top. Her nipples beaded through the thin material under my frequent glances. Any other man would have been hard staring at her as often as I did.

But I wasn’t just any man. Despite her beauty, Celia had never turned me on. I knew her too well. I cared for her as much as I was able. For me, emotions didn’t go with sex. They were completely separate. Emotional attachment was for people you wanted to spend time with—there were few of those people in my life. So few I could count them on one hand.

Sex was something else entirely. It was for pleasure. For getting off. For releasing pent-up aggression. I’d explored the possibility that it was anything else very thoroughly. I’d fucked frequently. I’d learned how to please and how I liked to be pleased. I’d perfected technique, shaped myself into a skilled lover. Yet with all the encounters I’d had, I’d never discovered the association others had with emotion and sex. My findings only solidified my original hypothesis—they were separate things entirely.

Or I’d proven another hypothesis altogether—that I was incapable of that type of emotion. That I was incapable of love. That certainly wasn’t a conclusion that I’d ruled out.

It was after ten when a bunch of us commandeered a lounging area set up specifically for the party. I sat on the loveseat, Celia at my side. Christina Brooke half sat, half fell at my feet. I imagined she’d gone past tipsy to drunk, but most of it was an act. She was looking for an excuse to lean against my leg. I didn’t mind. I liked the way her hand held onto my thigh as her breast pushed through her tank against my bare shin. My view of her was fantastic. I could see down her shirt with ease. She was an extremely sexy girl with plump lips that I couldn’t help imagining wrapped around my cock. I had a semi just thinking about it.

Celia cast an irritated glance down at her friend. “Everyone’s drinking but me.”

With difficulty, I shifted my focus from Christina to Celia. I couldn’t let lust distract me. “I’m not drinking.”

She scowled. “But you could get some if you wanted.”

I looked around at the other guests our age. They weren’t legal, but almost all were nursing an alcoholic beverage of some sort. Obviously the bartender we’d hired wasn’t carding. “Why can’t you get one?”

I wondered if she was afraid to leave me alone with Christina. The way my cock pushed at my briefs, maybe that was a valid fear.

“My father’s guarding the bar. I have no shot.” Not the response I’d expected. “He already told me he wanted to find nothing in my hand tonight but Diet Coke. And he checks. See?”

I looked toward the bar where Warren was perched, his back against the counter. Sure enough, his eyes were on us, though I had a feeling it was more because he was interested in my fraternization with his daughter than because he was concerned about her stealing a sip of wine. Warren Werner was the protective father sort. It occurred to me that my experiment might earn me a black eye from the man.

It would be worth it.

The project consumed me now. I realized that fully. I’d turn down a fuck-hot sure thing at my feet for a chance to prove my hypothesis. Was it really an experiment anymore, or a game? It was my obsession, that’s what it was. Anything else I called it at this point was merely a label.

“I’m standing up now,” I warned Christina. She mumbled something then lay back on the grass, likely on the verge of passing out. Her shirt pushed up and I glimpsed her bare belly. I allowed myself one mental snapshot to savor for later when I jerked off in the shower. Then I turned to Celia.

“Come with me. I don’t believe the entire liquor cabinet was brought out to the patio. If it was, I know where my mother keeps her secret stash.” I took Celia’s hand and laced my fingers through hers. It felt warmer than I expected, and the shock of it almost made me let go. But I reasoned the sensation was likely caused by the filthy thoughts I’d been having about Christina.

I let the visions of sex fade from my mind as we walked toward the house. At the door, I peered over at my friend and winked. “Also, I have something I want to give you.”

“You do?” Her eyes lit up. “What is it?”

“All in good time, my love.” The manipulation of my endearment made me cringe. Especially when I saw the effect it had on The Subject. She literally glowed.

I was disgusted with myself. That surprised me, but I didn’t take it to mean anything too enlightening. A decent human being would have felt it long before now. More proof that I was neither decent nor feeling.

Except I was feeling in that moment. Bitter disgust. It was ugly in texture and taste. I didn’t like it. It was a hindrance to my goal. That drink would be good.

Ten minutes later as the bourbon from the mini-bar off the living room settled in my stomach, I reevaluated the weakness I’d felt shortly before. Perhaps it wasn’t weakness, after all. It was more recognition of fact than a feeling. There was no doubt I was a disgusting person. No one who knew the extent of my thoughts and actions would disagree.

But there was no one who knew my inner psyche. My secret belonged only to me.

“Better?” I swirled the liquid in my glass before finishing the last swallow.

“Much.” Celia downed her own drink, cringing as she took in the bitter alcohol. “Woo!” She held her hand out to me to steady herself. “Maybe I should have drank that slower.”

“Here.” I helped her to the couch. “Sit while I get your gift.”

She settled into the upholstery. “It’s not my birthday or anything. Why would you get me something?”

“Do I need an occasion? Besides, it’s barely anything at all.” I left her to head to the dining room where I’d stashed my gift on the china cabinet. I’d planned this earlier, and not wanting to be too sequestered with Celia, I’d made sure my present was near the party.

I gathered the items and thought briefly how I owed Mirabelle for the tip of gifting based on knowing someone. Celia hadn’t declared a major yet. She’d spent long hours debating with me about what she should choose. Her heart longed to pursue art, but her parents would never approve of such a frivolous career choice. While I’d listened and consoled, I hadn’t given much input. I appreciated art in all forms, yet I had not a lick of that kind of creativity, and how she could marry her passion with an occupation the Werners approved of was beyond me.

Then my mother hired an interior designer for our home back in Manhattan. By hand, he’d sketched out beautiful new concepts for our living room and den. The work he’d done was creative and artistic and completely something within Celia’s capability. I’d researched programs at Celia’s school and ordered some brochures. Then I purchased a coffee table book with photographs of contemporary designs from the last decade. These were the gifts I gave to Celia.

“It’s merely an option.” I sat and watched her look through the brochures over her shoulder. “You can take or leave the information however you like. I won’t be offended if you think it’s all shit.”

She shook her head. “No. It’s perfect. This idea is perfect.”

I shrugged. But I was quite pleased with the results of my gift.

“Thank you, Hudson.” Her eyes were wet and her face flushed, equally from the liquor as much as from my gesture. “I’m so moved. You can’t understand.”

“Really, it’s nothing.”

“Stop being humble. It’s a lot. Thank you.” She wiped a tear from her eye. Then she threw herself into my arms. “Thank you so much.”

I paused for a moment before embracing her back. I hadn’t expected her hug, but once I got over the initial shock, I was glad for it. Warmth spread in my chest, and I couldn’t figure out if my satisfaction was from the progress I’d made in my experiment or from sincere care for my friend’s happiness. Did I have that in me? To care whether or not good things happened to Celia?

It seemed that maybe I did.

So when she pulled back and found my mouth, I welcomed it. I kissed her genuinely, letting my lips move in tandem with hers. She tasted sweet and innocent and also in need, as if she’d yearned for this kiss for as long as I’d worked to get her there. Her urge was so strong it was contagious. I could have kept kissing her. I could have taken her to my room. I could have stripped her naked and learned her body and made her writhe, forgetting all about my experiment, abandoning everything I’d ever believed about myself.

I could have. But how long would it last? Until we’d both come and were spent? Longer, perhaps—a week, a month? Until she realized that I was cold and calculating? Until she discovered that everything that she liked about me was a façade? That everything she thought I felt was a complete and utter lie?

No. I could never let anyone know who I really was. No one could want me if they knew who I was inside. It was better that I could never love in return because I’d never keep anyone anyway. So I had to end it—the kiss. In the name of all that I knew I could never be or have or give.

Also, I had an experiment to conclude.

I broke the kiss and pulled away from her. It was easier than it should have been. She tried to reach for me again and I halted her. “Celia.” My breath was ragged. “You have a boyfriend.”

“Can’t we pretend just for tonight that I don’t?” Her eyes were hopeful, wanting.

But my stoicism had returned and her pleading expression had no effect on me.

I stood, brushing my hand through my hair. “I told you I’m done pretending.” Done pretending with myself. I had to finally be honest. It wasn’t that I suspected I was incapable of love—I knew I was incapable. If I wasn’t, I would have been able to keep kissing Celia. And I couldn’t.

She rose and stepped toward me, but froze when the sound of loud voices came from the kitchen. My parents’ voices.

I hurried to them, Celia at my heels. At the archway to the kitchen, I stopped, peering around the corner to see what was going on. Along with my parents, I saw my siblings and their nanny, Erin.

“You don’t think I know?” my mother was shouting at my father. “You and your whores.”

I looked across the room out toward the party that thrived outside. All the windows were shut, thankfully. Likely no one could hear this going on inside.

“How many have there been, Jack?” my mother spit out. She was drunk. She was often drunk, but she generally was able to hide it. That she couldn’t hold it together when we had company irked me to no end.

It had a more devastating effect on my siblings.

“Mom.” Mirabelle pulled at the edge of Sophia’s dress. “Stop yelling. You’re making Chandler cry.”

“Erin.” My father motioned to the nanny. “Take Chandler up, will you? And Mira.”

Mirabelle protested. “I’m old enough to stay up. I don’t want to miss—”

“Go. I’ll be up when I can.” There was no disagreeing with my dad when he had that tone. Mirabelle followed Erin out the other kitchen door.

Then Dad turned to my mother, putting a hand on her upper arm. “Sophia, let’s talk about this later.”

She shrugged out of his grasp. “Just go now. Pretend to look after your children when you’re really after that piece of ass. Everyone here knows you’re fucking her.”

“No one here knows anything.” He corrected himself quickly. “Because there’s nothing to know. You’ve had too much to drink, that’s all. Planning this party has exhausted you. Lie down for a bit—”

My mother slapped him. Hard enough that it left a mark. “Don’t you fucking patronize me. I know, Jack. I’ve known forever. And I don’t want to hear your excuses anymore. You’re going to fuck who you want whether I’m around or not, but I don’t have to have it under my roof. Your skanks are no longer welcome in my house. You are no longer welcome in my house.”

“Sophia.” Despite his aching jaw, my father reached again for his wife.

“You can stay in the guest house from now on. Fuck whoever, whenever. Not in my house. Not in front of my children.” She threw her hand in the direction that the nanny had gone. “And Erin’s no longer on my payroll.”

My father finally lost his cool. “It’s not your fucking payroll, Sophia,” he shouted. “I’m the one who brings the goddamn money to the household.”

“Is that so? And just how is it that you have companies to run in the first place?”

“Yes, yes. You’re right. I owe you every fucking thing I’ve ever earned. I forgot.” This wasn’t the first time I’d heard this argument from my parents. It had been my mother who had the money when they’d married. My mother who’d given him the companies that he’d turned into Pierce Industries. And she never let him forget it.

My father scrubbed his hands over his face. This seemed to calm him. “Look, you can yell at me about this all you want, Sophia. Tomorrow. Later tonight, even. But now, we have a garden full of guests that I’m going to tend to. With or without you.” He turned away from her and headed toward the patio doors.