I RECEIVED the text from my father last night, discovering it just after I made Carolina come with my mouth, while I was standing at the window watching the storm rage outside. His text made me feel as angry as that storm, barely able to contain myself.
We need to talk.
No one wants to receive a text like that, not even me, especially not from my father. Our relationship is fraught with tension. It always has been. He fully expects me to take over the family business, but I have no interest in it, not that he cares. This is the problem with being an only child.
All expectations fall on you.
I got out of Carolina’s room as fast as possible, knowing full well I confused the hell out of her, but I couldn’t help it. Having my father text out of nowhere is unusual, even for him. I know he loves a good surprise attack, but this is odd.
We spoke on the phone when I returned to my dorm, though he really didn’t say anything substantial. He basically requested that I come to New York City and talk to him, so here I am in a suite at one of the swankiest hotels in Midtown, sitting at a boardroom table all by myself and fidgeting in my seat. I let Matthews know I couldn’t make it to class today and he was fine with it. Well, his secretary was.
I check my phone, hoping for a message from Carolina, but then I realize she doesn’t have my phone number, so I squash that hope completely.
Stupid.
I would’ve taken things so much farther last night if not for that damn text from dear old dad. I’m dreading what he wants to talk to me about. Something to do with the business, no doubt. I turned eighteen over the summer, and he insisted I sign a bunch of paperwork along with all of the members of the House of Fontaine board. Something to do with a transfer of power in case of my father’s absence or death. I don’t even fully understand what I signed, but at the time I didn’t really care either.
I’m not attached to the vineyards or the wine and champagne making like my father is, and his father before him. It’s not in my blood, the need to wander the vineyards and check for the best grapes. Perfecting the right blend to bottle and sell. I enjoy drinking it—we make some of the best in the world and I’d fight anyone who challenged that title—but I don’t want to run the business. I don’t want it to consume my life like it does for my dad.
But shit. I have no idea what I want to do with my life.
The door swings open and my father appears, regal in a black Brioni suit, his white shirt and red tie appearing extra crisp, as usual.
The man is intimidating, with a shark’s smile and foreboding dark eyes. He doesn’t fuck with much—meaning not many people can get something over him. He’s sharp as hell and quick-witted, and while I know I have some of his traits, he always knows how to get the best of me.
And it sucks.
“Weston.” I automatically rise to my feet when he says my name, letting him hug me. I return the gesture, lightly patting him on the back, the two of us not exactly comfortable with expressing affection.
I’m reminded of Carolina and how I’m slowly getting her used to my physical touch, and I realize there’s hardly a moment that I can’t relate it to Carolina somehow.
“Hi, Dad,” I tell him when he withdraws, remaining standing until he settles into a chair at the head of the table. I sit in the chair to the right of him, waiting for him to speak, trying to ignore the nerves that gnaw at my insides.
“You’re looking well.” He inclines his head toward me and my gaze drops to the black leather portfolio sitting on the table directly in front of him. I don’t recall seeing him bring that in, so I’m not sure when it appeared.
“Thank you. So are you.” The formalities between us are excruciating. I wonder if he can feel it? If Mom was here, she’d be the buffer between us. Her presence eases the tension between Dad and me. We haven’t really even said anything, yet it’s always there, brewing between us like that damn storm last night.
“How is school coming along?”
“My grades are good.” I shrug, knowing for a fact that he’s already checked my grades. He logs into the school portal and looks at them almost daily. He told me that once, and I never forgot.
The line of questioning feels like a formality. A bunch of mindless small talk before we get down to the real business.
“Did you join cross country like you mentioned to me?” His brows lift.
“No.” That was a fleeting idea at the end of my junior year, when I was still on a high after winning the state championship, and I never wanted to stop running. “Decided it wasn’t my thing. I prefer short distance.”
“Probably can’t pace yourself for long distance.” The insult is small, but its aim is true—straight to my ego.
I decide to ignore the comment and be more direct. “Why are you here?”
They’ve lived the last few years on the West Coast—specifically the Napa Valley. There’s a Fontaine vineyard there that my father has been working on, overseeing the creation of new wines.
“I went to France first and spent some time at the vineyard. The soil is changing. The sun is too hot for too long. We’ve been making accommodations, but it’s not quite working. Yet.” He smiles, but I see the worry in his gaze. He’s been worried about the weather changes for a while. All of France and even the UK are worried too. Less champagne is being produced, yet it’s more in demand than ever.
“How was your visit?”
“Productive. Fruitful.” He smiles at his subtle pun. “You should’ve come with me.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I knew you’d turn me down,” he counters. “Though you’re exactly where you need to be. Working on your studies. Enjoying your last year of freedom.”
Dread coats my skin and I go completely still at his use of the term, last year of freedom.
How fucking ominous of him.
“What do you mean?”
“A—complication has arisen, and I don’t know how to work around it.” He rubs his chin, his gaze turning thoughtful as he stares off into the distance. “There are going to be changes.”
“Changes in what?”
“Your life. Mine.” He finally meets my gaze and I notice how hollow his cheeks are. His eyes dark, almost haunted. “I’m not well, son.”
My mind has a hard time processing what he’s saying. “What do you mean?”
A ragged sigh escapes him and he leans back in his chair, reaching out to pluck at the edge of the leather portfolio in front of him. “I’m sick.”
My ears start to ring.
“Cancer.”
My head joins in, making it hard to hear.
“Where is it?” When he stares at me blankly, I clear my throat. “The cancer. Of what?”
“Oh. The lungs. The liver. Everywhere. I let it spread.” He chuckles, shaking his head, his gaze dropping. “I didn’t believe them when they first told me. An entire team of doctors ran tests on me and I didn’t want to believe the results. I went to other doctors. Other specialists. Holistic healing. Natural herbs and pastes and treatments. I have done all sorts of things over the last six months.”
The last six months? And he didn’t tell me?
“I didn’t want to worry you. Your mother is stressed and anxious and had to be put on medication. She believes I’m healed, only because that’s what I told her.” His smile is more like a baring of teeth, his skin stretched tight over the bones in his face, giving him a skeletal appearance. “I’m dying.”
The two words are like a slap to the face, and despite the tension and the animosity and the anger this man has made me feel over the last few years, it takes everything inside me not to break down and cry at the finality of his words. His tone.
He’s dying.
“What do you need me to do?” My throat is dry. All of the moisture in my body seems to be welling in my eyes, and I close them tightly, mentally telling myself not to cry.
I can’t cry.
Not in front of him.
Not in front of anyone.
I need to remain strong.
“Finish school. Hopefully I’ll be around until you graduate.” His smile grows, and I feel a single tear slide from the corner of my eye, making its way down my cheek. “Aw, don’t cry. You know I was hard on you for most of your life. You don’t need to shed any tears over me.”
“You’re my father.” I swallow down the sob that wants to escape. “Of course, I’m going to be emotional when you tell me you’re—dying.”
“It’s all part of life, son.” His expression is somber. “Something you’ll have to get used to. We have things in place in case I pass before you graduate high school, but the moment you do, I need you to step in and take over.”
“Take over what?”
“The business. This is my legacy, what I’m leaving you with to carry on our family name. You’re young, just a baby, but you can step up. Step into my role. There are people at Fontaine who will help you. Guide you.” His gaze turns almost pleading, a look I’ve never seen him wear before. “You could graduate early and I’ll guide you myself.”
I’m shaking my head, bracing my hands against the edge of the table. This is the last thing I want to do. The last thing I expected him to say to me.
“I need you.” His voice breaks, and he presses his lips together as if he needs to compose himself. “I need you to come back to Napa with me.”
“I—”
“Please.” He shakes his head, a chuckle leaving him. Almost as if he’s laughing at himself. “I’m not one to beg, you know this. But I need you, Weston. I need you to come back with me and help me take care of the business. Let me teach you whatever I can. I know I mentioned that you’re getting your last year of freedom, but my own selfish needs are rearing their ugly head right now and I-I need you. Your mother needs you.”
Pulling out the mom card is a low blow. She may drive me crazy sometimes, but I love her. She’s my mom. And I hate the thought of her being alone, suffering through all of this and never telling me what’s going on.
They’ve both suffered in silence and it’s fucking weird, but par for the course. Our family is all about secrets, mostly when they’re unnecessary. My parents claim they prefer to keep their business private, but they take it way too far.
Like this, for example.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you had cancer?” I ask him, letting all my hostility bleed into my voice.
“Like I said, we didn’t want to worry you.”
“Right. Great excuse. Instead, you keep it to yourselves and try to deal with it, only to spring all of this on me in a matter of minutes.” I throw my hands up in the air, frustrated. “I can’t just drop everything and go to California with you. I have a life here. I’m going to school. I need to graduate.”
I’m just a fucking kid, is what I want to tell him. His expectations are way too high, but they always have been.
“And you have a life and responsibility waiting for you in Napa as well.” He shrugs, very much an ‘oh well’ gesture. “You’re right. I didn’t handle this correctly. I never said I was perfect. I truly believed I would recover and be in remission in no time. That’s not how it worked out for me, and unfortunately, that means I need your help. I know you’re young and what I’m asking from you is a lot, but we need you, West. This business is an empire. You’re set for fucking life. You’ll barely have to do anything to manage it beyond make decisions with the board and staff, and you’ll have consult teams to check in with on your every move. It’s simple. It’s already a smooth-running machine.”
He doesn’t mention how no one will respect me, and there are sure to be more than a few employees pissed that I was handed the reins without having to do a damn thing to earn them.
“You should sell it.” That’s what I’ve always wanted. Huge luxury conglomerates have been buying up a variety of brands, including alcohol and specifically champagne. I know a few have made offers to my father over the last few years, but he’s always turned them down.
Dad shakes his head. “Never.”
We’d make a shit ton of money. We’re already set for life, but a deal like I just mentioned would take care of Fontaines for generations to come.
“And I don’t want you selling it either,” he tacks on, his voice firm, his gaze intense. “This business has been in the Fontaine family going back almost two hundred years. And I want it to stay that way.”
I remain quiet, hating my thoughts.
Once he’s dead, he won’t know what I do with the business. And if I have my way …
I’ll get rid of it.
For good.
