High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

21. Liam

21

LIAM

Cocktails are already flowing by the time I arrive at the Donovan family estate. The scent of roasted meat and garlic fills the air, and the weight of my mother’s perfectionism hangs in every corner of the house.

I step inside, and the pressure of the evening settles on my shoulders like a heavy coat. My brows furrow as I make my way through the foyer. The polished floors gleam under the chandelier, and the air hums with quiet, practiced conversation. A house that feels more like a showroom than a home.

But then again, I guess it was never really my home to begin with.

I move past the open door to the dining room, where a long wooden table is meticulously set with gleaming silverware and fresh floral arrangements. I have no clue what’s happening here, but everything about the evening seems so perfectly orchestrated, so on brand for my parents.

I glance into the living room, where people are gathered, drinks in hand, chatting casually. A few familiar faces linger among the crowd—alumni from their university days, some of my dad’s associates—but none I want to talk to. I’m not here for small talk, anyway.

Stepping back toward the foyer, I veer into the hallway, out of sight but still within earshot. From this vantage point, I can see the whole scene play out. My father is holding court at the center of the living room—surrounded by a few of his business associates, a couple of college friends, and a handful of faces I don’t recognize. Fellow students, I assume.

Pulling out my phone, I quickly scan for context, confused and irritated. A couple of clicks later, I find an event on our shared Google calendar: Fellowship Finalists Dinner . A last-minute addition that no one bothered to mention to me.

Not even Birdie, who I just spent the night with—finalizing her presentation, calming her nerves. She should be here, shouldn’t she?

I glance over the crowd once more, scanning for her familiar face, but she’s nowhere to be found. Instead, I clash eyes with my dad. He looks calm—too calm. It’s the kind of calm that hides something else entirely, something calculated. It only serves to confuse me more.

Taking a couple of steps toward the bar, I find my mom deep in conversation with an older man. I offer the obligatory smile as I greet her. “Liam,” she says warmly, reaching out to hug me. “So good to see you. Have you had a chance to make the rounds?”

“No, not really. I just got here.”

She frowns, tilting her head in that subtle way that always feels like a reprimand. “Well, I do hope you make an effort. Just . . . please don’t give your father another reason to lecture you tonight. He’s already in one of his moods.”

“I’m not gonna step out of line,” I mutter, disheartened. “Don’t worry.”

She pats my shoulder gently, but her attention is already drifting back to her previous conversation. It’s a familiar dance of forced politeness and quiet judgment.

Sighing, I pull out my phone again—still nothing from Birdie. Maybe she declined the invitation. I guess it’s better that she’s focused on the actual presentation tomorrow. She doesn’t need to waste her energy on this stuff. One extra night of anxious schmoozing isn’t going to help her, anyway.

The chatter dies down a bit as people start wandering toward the dining room. I follow, still scanning the room, and send one last message:

Liam

hey, where are you? dinner’s starting

My father’s already ushering people to the table, arranging everyone in their “proper” spots like it’s some kind of power play. The whole room feels suffocating, like a show he’s making me sit through for his own amusement. I glance at my phone again, and my pulse kicks up. Still nothing.

I check the door. No sign of her. I glance around the dining room, scanning the faces more carefully now, my chest tightening with each second. My eyes catch my dad’s again, and something about the way he looks at me—calm, strangely satisfied—makes the feeling in my gut worse.

Something is most definitely off. I don’t know what it is yet, but I know this feeling well. It’s the one I get when I’m not in control of a situation—when things aren’t going the way I expect. The same feeling I had when James first left for the minors. The same feeling I get when the game plan shifts mid-match and I don’t know where to position myself.

And tonight, for reasons I can’t yet put into words, it feels like I’m about to lose.

I push back from the doorway and cross the room. “Dad,” I say, pulling him to the side, away from the rest of the group. “Can we wait a minute? I think Birdie must be running late.”

“I didn’t invite Miss Collins here tonight.”

I freeze, my pulse skipping. “What do you mean?”

“What I’ve just told you,” he says flatly, straightening his tie as if this is a perfectly normal thing to drop on someone. “Miss Collins was not invited to this dinner.”

“Why the hell not?” Heat creeps up my neck. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

He gives me that look—the one that’s half disappointment, half condescension. “She’s had enough of a leg up, don’t you think?”

I stare at him, the words barely registering. “What are you talking about?”

“She was already invited to the gallery opening,” he says in that clipped, dismissive tone that always grates on me. “And I know you’ve been helping her with the presentation. That’s an unfair advantage.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of me. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I can’t even breathe. “You’re telling me you excluded her because of me?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s not personal, Liam. It’s about fairness.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I spit, low and furious. “Birdie deserves to be here. She’s worked harder than anyone.”

“Enough,” he snaps. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

But the damage is already done. My blood is boiling, and all I can see is Birdie’s face—the way she would have walked in here, steady and determined, ready to hold her own. And now? She doesn’t even get the chance. All because of some petty, manufactured nonsense my father’s conjured up to suit his narrative.

I realize then that he’s already written her off. No matter how brilliant her presentation tomorrow, no matter how hard she’s worked, he’s decided she’s not the “right fit” for this fellowship. But he’s not the only judge, and if there’s any way to level the playing field, I’ll find it.

“She’s gonna be devastated,” I mutter, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You have no idea what this is going to do to her.”

“She’ll recover,” he says with that maddening calm. “This isn’t the end of the world.”

It feels like the end of something. The tension coils tighter in my chest, suffocating. “You don’t know her at all,” I say through gritted teeth. “You don’t know what this means to her.”

He doesn’t respond, just gives me that same detached look he always does when he thinks he’s won. And maybe he has. There’s no undoing what he’s already decided. He’s never going to see Birdie the way I do.

“Forget it,” I mutter, spinning on my heel and heading back toward the dining room.

My gut screams at me to walk out, to leave him to host this pretentious circus on his own. But I force myself to stay. If there’s even the slimmest chance I can learn something useful tonight, something that might help Birdie tomorrow, then I’ll suffer through it. For her.

The chatter at the table settles as my dad gestures for everyone to take their seats. I glance at the place cards lining the table, my name neatly written in calligraphy near the end of the table. I sit down, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest as conversation starts up around me.

It doesn’t take long for someone to catch my attention. A guy a few seats away leans in when my dad speaks, hanging on his every word. He’s polished—too polished—with a blazer that probably costs more than my car and a grin that screams smarmy overachiever.

“Nick,” my dad says, his tone dripping with approval. “I was just telling Margaret here about how your approach to marrying design with narrative is exactly the kind of forward-thinking perspective we need more of in the contemporary art world.”

Nick. The name clicks. Birdie mentioned him once before, in passing, when she was being self-deprecating about her chances. If you were hoping to see the work of a guaranteed fellowship winner, Nick just left.

I sit back, my jaw tightening as I watch the guy lap up my dad’s praise. He’s smooth, poised, and clearly used to being the center of attention. Everything Birdie isn’t—and it’s pissing me off.

As dinner is served, I wait for my moment. Nick’s talking about his artistic process now, something about how his work “challenges societal expectations” by merging industrial materials with organic forms. I can’t help myself.

“Form and function?” I cut in, raising an eyebrow. “So, like . . . IKEA?”

Nick glances at me. “It’s about more than that. It’s about redefining how we engage with functionality. When we consider traditional boundaries, we—”

“Or is it more like art you can sit on but not actually use?” I add, tilting my head innocently.

A few guests chuckle outright this time, and Nick’s composure slips for a fraction of a second. My dad clears his throat, his eyes narrowing at me from across the table. “Liam.”

“What?” I shrug, leaning back in my chair. “I’m just trying to understand the genius of it all.”

Nick tries to redirect the conversation, but the tone’s already shifted. A few of the other guests are smiling, and even my mom looks like she’s fighting not to smirk. My dad, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to explode.

“Liam,” my mom says suddenly, her voice tight. “Would you mind helping me with something in the kitchen?”

I know what this is, but I stand anyway, following her into the other room. As soon as we’re out of earshot, she spins on me. “Are you being a bug on purpose, or are you just that thoughtless?”

A bug . She used to call me that when I was a kid. When I said, or did, or looked at something the wrong way. It made sense to me then. I’m a bug—small, annoying, easy to swat away. But now, it stings in a different way.

I lean against the counter. “What do you mean? I’m just having a conversation.”

“You’re embarrassing your father in front of his colleagues!”

I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “This whole dinner is a charade. It’s not about the fellowship—it’s about him showing off. And we both know he’s just going to pick the most hoity-toity loser with a piss-poor artistic vision anyway.”

“Liam!” she snaps.

I push off the counter, my jaw tight. “You know what? I’m done. If I have to hold my tongue at my own dinner table, then I might as well not be here at all.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t walk out of here. You always do this, Liam. Leave when you don’t like what’s happening. It’s not what adults do.”

But I’m already heading back toward the dining room. I stop just long enough to step into the doorway, catching my dad’s eye. Then I salute him, a sharp, sarcastic motion that makes a few heads turn.

“David Donovan, everyone. Dayton’s own patron saint of posturing. Long may he reign.”

And with that, I’m gone.