“Don’t answer.”
I look away from the buzzing phone at my father’s proud profile. Chin raised; shoulders squared. He’s backlit by a single lamp that casts a golden glow over the study that’s almost an exact replica of his office in New York. Oiled leather, dark wood, and expensive whiskey are the sights and smells I associate with my father. We’re thousands of miles from Kensington Consolidated’s headquarters, but it feels like we could be sitting in his corner office overlooking Manhattan.
“It’s Crew.”
“Don’t answer,” he repeats.
“Stock is in fucking freefall. Everyone will be panicking, and we’re both out of the country.”
My father sips his whiskey, appearing unbothered.
“Dad,” I try again. “You can’t just leave him on a sinking ship without telling him—”
“I’ll do whatever I damn well want, Oliver.” His voice is so soft, so low, that I automatically flinch. Loud, angry exclamations don’t wound the same way quiet, intentional statements do. “And you’re neither a current or future CEO, so your opinion is irrelevant.” He sips from the glass tumbler he’s holding, staring at the snow that glitters under the starry sky.
Words meant to maim.
Meant to sting.
Meant to hurt.
I swallow and nod, compartmentalizing the ache those words incite. Falling short has always been my biggest fear, and Arthur Kensington knows it. Uses it. Dangles his approval up ahead, part of a peak above a mountain he’ll never let me reach the top of.
I’m the fool who keeps climbing anyway.
He tosses back the final inch of his drink and stands suddenly.
Glass doors lead out to the patio that’s been coated with snow and ice every visit for the past decade but is probably pleasant in other seasons. My father stares at the endless stretch of white, his body language just as still and unmoving as the frozen water.
“Ethan Gorton will be accompanying me to Chicago next week.”
My spine stiffens, the ice in his voice chilling my skin and spreading through my veins.
“I’ve worked on that offer for two months.”
“You’re needed in New York. Scarlett is expecting, and Crew’s focus will be affected. Pregnant women are volatile and needy. Be glad you’re not about to discover that for yourself.”
I pull in a harsh breath of air as he carelessly brushes against the topic I’m terrified to raise.
My relationship with my father has always been centered around work. When I answered his summons, it was easy to pretend the company’s insider trader investigation was the only current catastrophe.
Easy…and cowardly.
Suitcases line the front hall.
I step forward, sucking in another deep breath, as if oxygen equals courage. “Dad, I’m so sorr—”
I don’t see it coming.
One second, I’m moving toward the tense figure facing the snow. The next, I’m nearly toppling backward as black dots explode across my vision, reeling from the impact and the shock of the physical blow.
I gape at him, stunned speechless and still.
My father has never, ever been the warm and coddling type of parent. He issues orders and makes demands. He doesn’t ask questions or attempt small talk.
But he’s never hit me.
Previous punishments were long silences or heavy stares. He’s always preferred to let his disappointment do the talking, to smother me like a heavy blanket.
Pain trickles in slowly, as the shock ebbs away. I touch the raw skin of my cheek tentatively, tasting the metallic tang of copper on my tongue.
Fuck, that hurt. More than a punch from anyone else would have.
There’s so much I could say to him. Justifications, explanations, admissions, excuses.
I could say I’m sick of being boiled down to my last name. I was born and raised to be a Kensington, and it’s all I’m diminished to.
And I fucked up, trying to escape that for a minute.
I could shove my father’s own shortcomings in his face. Tell him he was a terrible father and a worse husband and that plants wither without nourishment, but people become desperate. Become petty. Tell him that he’s the reason his wife begged me to fuck her. That he shouldn’t have married a woman younger than me and then ignored her existence, if her loyalty mattered to him.
“I’ve lost every iota of respect I ever had for you, Oliver,” he hisses, pointing a finger in my face. His knuckles are red and raw, just as angry as his expression. “So don’t you fucking say sorry, because Kensingtons don’t apologize. And you be damn grateful for that name because it’s the only reason you’re not struggling to find a janitorial job. Outside of the company, you’re no son of mine.”
I knew my father wouldn’t want an apology. Knew he sees admittance of mistakes to be weakness. But I needed an outlet. To expel the churning mass of regret in some way.
He wouldn’t even let me get the damn word out.
Sorry, I say in my head.
But what comes out is, “I’ve never been your son outside the company.”
A vein in my father’s temple pulses. I focus on the rapid rise and fall, as rhythmic as a drum’s beat.
He’s used to deference from me. Crew was always the headache. The son who partied too much and snuck girls into the estate and was too easygoing for my father’s ruthless tastes.
I was the reliable, predictable child. And while my father might not have always respected that obeisance, he appreciated it. Maybe more than he realized up until now.
My father walks over to the crystal tumbler I know is filled with his favorite whiskey. It costs five figures a bottle, and he downs it like water. I watch him pour himself a second glass, purposefully not offering me one. The minimal light is enough to show the platinum wedding band on his left hand is already gone.
Red eyes and soft pleas and a workaholic reputation. That’s how I ended up here.
I ended a marriage.
A volatile, unhappy one I’m quite certain my father only entertained because having an attractive, young wife was convenient arm candy. Someone he could train and control, the same way he molded Crew and me.
But still…a marriage.
And despite spending most of my life being surrounded by—and half of—unhappy couples, that commitment still seems sacred to me.
Maybe because I saw it transform Crew firsthand. Watched my brother discover love as part of his marriage and learn to treat it as something precious.
My father and Candace never shared that bond, but knowing so isn’t much of a relief. Not when my cheek stings, and I can hear Candace’s desperate pleas begging me to make him reconsider.
Arthur Kensington doesn’t listen to anyone.
Especially not me.
He turns, one eyebrow arching as he drains half a glass of amber liquid.
“Get the hell out of my sight.”
I turn, knowing he’ll think less of me for walking away on command, like a well-trained dog. But if I stay, he’ll bemoan my inability to comply with a simple instruction. With him, I can never win.
“Oliver.”
I stop, hand on the doorknob.
“Guard your secrets closely. If you ever fuck up again, I’ll make sure every person in this country learns about it. I’m protecting myself, taking care of this. Not you. Never you. Understood?”
“Understood,” I grit out.
I slam the study door behind me. It’s childish and paltry, but the brief glimmer of satisfaction is the best I’ve felt all day.
