25. Chapter 25
Chapter 25
Damon
After I leave Christopher's office, I make a beeline for the door that separates our prison from the hungry leech in designer suits.
He should send me a Christmas card—who knows how much of my money has been spent on his luxury items.
It's obvious my father pays him a pretty penny. From the few times I met Arthur before Lilydale was created, he was a polar opposite shell to his current self. Hideous polo shirts and khakis that belonged in the dumpster instead of the golf course. The type of man who would slosh food and drink all over himself because he was making jeers at people and expressing himself with his hands wildly to seem larger than life.
Now, he's living up a lavish lifestyle thanks to my family.
Sometimes the world is unforgiving. It would be nice to believe that karma is a sure thing, but truthfully, bad guys always win. That made it easier to become one myself—the need to win and succeed drives me further than anything else.
I distinctly remember my parents fighting one day about Arthur. My father spent most of his free time at country clubs and golf courses with his college buddies. Just like now, Arthur was the leech who glued himself to my family's side—money is shiny, after all.
As much as she hated it, Mom heard gossip from the blabbermouths dressed in Louis Vuitton and Chanel. The wives and girlfriends were just as bad as their husbands—obsessed with the money and social ladders they could climb. Any excuse to be higher up than other people. They didn't care who they had to stand on to get there.
Someone let it slip over too many Long Island iced teas that Arthur was cheating on his wife. I had only met her a handful of times with him, but it was clear she was nothing like the snakes in designer clothing. She was the one person my mom got along with, without the need to pretend for the sake of being polite.
They got into a huge argument—Mom was adamant that Mrs. Whittingham should be told about her husband's infidelity. But my father, in his alcohol-fueled toxic masculinity, disagreed.
"He's a man. He can do what he wishes."
"Perhaps she should have spent more time taking care of him as a housewife should do."
"Without him, she'd be worthless. She should feel privileged that she has this lifestyle because of him."
When our maker was handing out cups of morality, my father was last in line. He was of the belief that women were beneath men, there to serve and bear children.
Despite Mom coming from old money, she still loved to work. It gave her a sense of purpose helping others. But my father quickly nipped it in the bud, forcing her to have me and leave the workforce.
To make himself look good, he allowed her to assist him with minor company duties—such as planning and hosting events. You know, jobs designed for women.
It was clear from a young age that I only existed to continue his legacy. Even when I was a toddler, he would tell me that it was lucky I was born a man.
I was the product of pain and suffering—but she still loved me. She devoted all her time to my needs, being hands-on unlike the other country club princesses who would pay someone to change their child's diaper.
The only good thing to come out of that mess was the fact that Mrs. Whittingham divorced him. Mom paid for her attorney, and in the end, Mrs. Whittingham walked away with half.
Arthur was furious. My father too.
And it still haunts me that it happened six months before my mother's death.
I don't believe in coincidence. I would wager every single dollar to my name that the grand Whittingham divorce was the beginning of the end for my family. But that's just who my mom was—always the savior, never the saved.
The last time I saw freedom was her funeral. The former Mrs. Whittingham was there—with a male guest—and my father tried to kick her out. I refused, putting him in his place.
Two weeks later I was sedated, placed in a temporary mental health involuntary hold. That part of my life was a blur after her death, and they used that to take advantage of me. At the end of the hold, Lilydale was created—and I was patient number one.
It wasn't just my father's revenge and need to overpower me… it was retaliation for Arthur.
Mom wasn't around to protect me anymore, and why would anyone believe a grieving eighteen-year-old? Especially one that punched his own father repeatedly in the face after a funeral.
He's psychotic. He has Intermittent Explosive Disorder.
He's a danger to society.
They can falsely diagnose me however they want. The jokes on them.
I became the society.
A virus, infecting their pride and joy from the inside-out.
As I enter the foyer, I notice that Arthur's door is wide open. Dorothea jumps in her seat, quickly standing when she spots me.
"You're not supposed to be out here," she scolds, but her words fall flat, coated in fear.
"Shut that dick-gurgling flytrap, Dorothea," I reply casually. "I'm in no mood to deal with you."
I can't see Arthur despite his door being open. He's blocked by a wide-shouldered body—a man standing in front of his desk. I recognize that physique anywhere.
"Well, isn't this just charming?" I sneer, watching as he turns around slowly, anger present on his aging features.
"Damon."
My father stands unfazed, glaring at me as Arthur rises from his chair. The two of them subconsciously straighten up, hoping to intimidate me with their slightly shorter frames.
"I should have known you'd be snooping around," I direct at my father. "Let me guess—there was a bit of a financial setback."
Arthur's fists curl on his desk as he pushes his weight into it. "We're not surprised that you had something to do with it."
I shrug. "I'm not sure what you are referring to. But it must be serious if the great Alexander Dale is making a house call."
"Watch your tone, boy," my father snaps. "I'm in no mood to deal with it."
"That makes two of us," I reply, amused that I just uttered the same words to Dorothea—the apple never falls far from the tree. "But if you're here to discuss business, then I should be involved, no?"
Walking over, I kick one of the guest chairs to the side of the room, sitting down on it. I smile at them, placing my forearms on the armrests as I strum my fingers.
"This doesn't concern you," Arthur spits out. "And I'm fed up with you waltzing around the facility as you please."
"I'm fed up with your existence," I sharply reply. "But alas, we're stuck with each other." Turning to my father, I raise an eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you plan on releasing me?"
My father's cheeks flush red—hopefully a sign of high blood pressure. "You cost the facility hundreds of thousands of dollars with your stunt."
"Oh, no. What a tragedy," I groan sarcastically. "How will you manage?"
Reaching into his briefcase, my father pulls out a stack of paperwork, flinging it into my lap. I calmly pick it up, scanning the front page. "Court proceedings? My, my. Bringing out the big guns."
My eyes hover over the words on the document. My father is seeking a court order to amend my trust, effectively immediately.
At the moment, he is unable to access money from it while I am deemed mentally incapacitated unless it's for specific reasons pertaining to my sole wellbeing and benefit. According to the documents, the facility needs to access the money so that it can stay open— for my benefit, wellbeing, and the greater good of the community .
As I read on, finding the section on supporting evidence, I snort. Glancing up at him, I raise an eyebrow mockingly. "You lost the contract."
"Not yet," Arthur interjects angrily. "But unless we pay for new equipment to replace what your lapdog broke, they are terminating the agreement."
I toss the papers onto the ground at my father's feet. "That seems very much like a you problem. You are aware as much as I am that you can't pull the funds from the trust. A judge will never approve this. Guess you'll have to fund it yourself. Maybe sell the Porsche and your vacation house in the Hamptons."
See—I can play nice. Look at me providing financial advice.
"Actually," my father starts, sounding eerily confident. "Our matter was listed on Judge Balknac's docket. You remember him—he's an old friend of mine."
Sadly, I do remember Richard Balknac. Mainly because I used to call him Dick Ball Sack. With a name like that, it's hard to forget.
"So, you bribed a judge," I point out in a bored tone. "Not surprised in the least."
"I did no such thing," he refutes. "But he is familiar with our charity work and how important it is that we stay in operation."
"Meaning you're terrified of me and had to build a literal prison to lock me up so that your bed feels safe at night."
My father folds his arms, tipping his chin up. "You can keep that copy. It's for you anyhow. By law, we have to notify all shareholders of impending legal action."
I grind my teeth together, realizing where this conversation is heading.
When Lilydale was set up, my father handpicked the board members and key players, including Arthur. But since Lilydale's mission statement was projected to be a mental health institution with my upcoming admission, of which was listed as indefinite/ongoing , they had to give me shares. If they wanted to use the trust funds for my admission, it had to be paid for so to speak—an eye for an eye.
Initially, I was the majority shareholder. It didn't matter much at the time—while I am here and deemed mentally unfit to make decisions, I cannot be involved. But I realize now I was set up.
If there's one thing my father loves more than money, it's power. He hated that I held fifty-one percent to his forty-nine thanks to the trust.
But that all changed.
Avery changed that.
The night I bargained with my father to bring her back, to keep her out of federal prison, he only asked for one thing.
Two percent of shares.
He even had Christopher sign off on a legal document stating that I was in a brief lucid state of mind, and capable of temporarily making decisions.
I gave him the position of majority shareholder for Avery's safe return. It's the reason he can bring this request to the court without my permission now. And since it's obvious he's bribed his judicial buddy, the trust fund is finally going to be cracked wide open—just what he's always wanted.
And there's very little I can do to stop him.
"Best of luck with it," I shoot back. "Even if you manage to access the money, I'll make sure those miserable doctors never touch a patient again."
My father smiles at me—his eyes cold and dead. "We'll see. The board has just finished negotiations with them. As your legal guardian, I've given them permission to attempt to fix your disorder if they see fit . They seemed eager, given your history."
"Oh, Father," I sigh. "I lived with you for nearly two decades. There's nothing they can do to torture me that you haven't already done."
His jaw ticks with unspoken anger. I look at the clock on the wall, rising to my feet. Turning to look at Arthur, I smile warmly. "As for you—I promise to make your life a living hell. The two of you might have money and friends in high places, but what you lack is guts. If your sagging, wrinkly balls weren't dangling around your knees, I'd assume you had none."
"Those are big words coming from someone locked up," Arthur taunts. "Your secret little society can only withstand so much. Eventually, you'll run out of options."
"Try me and see," I dare, smirking at him as I make my way toward the door, stepping on the paperwork without a care. "But you better hope you don't miss with your aim because I'm coming for both of you."