20. Reed #2
First, he hates anyone referring to me by my middle name. And second, he knows full well I don’t talk about him to people, but still he offers a firm smile. “The pleasure is all mine, your father is a great man and I’m sure he’s very proud of you.”
To most people that might sound like a nice thing to say, but I know my father better than that, his words no doubt meant as a dig.
“Did Mom and Freddie come with you?” I ask, changing the subject, and his attention moves back to me.
Wilder still hasn’t said a word, but I can feel his vibrating presence at my back, quietly seething.
My father shakes his head. “No, unfortunately your brother broke his arm last week, and well, you know your mother, she didn’t want him to travel.”
His words land like a knife to my gut.
“What do you mean he broke his arm? How did he break his arm?”
I spoke to my little brother just the other day and he never mentioned anything, and my father’s stare hardens at my interrogation.
“Lacrosse,” he replies dismissively. “You know how clumsy he is sometimes.”
He stares at me until I reluctantly nod and look away, only for my eyes to land back on Wilder, as my father makes polite conversation with his dad and the others. He seems to be the only one not taken with my father’s bullshit, but he knows the truth, or some of it at least.
I hope he can’t see how bad things really are.
“Anyway, I hope you don’t mind, but I was hoping I could steal my son for a couple of hours, you know, have dinner with him and catch up?” It sounds like a perfectly acceptable request, and Wilder’s father smiles.
“Of course, your son has been doing great out on the circuit with us, so steal away, he deserves an afternoon off.”
I don’t bother reminding them both that technically, today is my day off anyway, since it’s Tuesday, it would be pointless.
Instead, I keep my polite and practiced smile in place and let my father lead me away.
Wilder tries to stop me with a firm grip on my forearm, but I quickly shove him off and subtly shake my head once more.
The elevator ride up to my father’s penthouse suite is quiet, not the awkward kind, just the silence of two people who share nothing more than DNA.
When we step off, he walks ahead, using his key to unlock the door and then gesturing for me to enter.
I can see the table already set for dinner, and I turn to ask him what we are having.
Then it happens. Fast. Hard.
I don’t even see it coming, just feel it. My head jerks to the side on impact, and I barely have time to react before there’s another. And another, and another.
“You fucking inconsiderate little disgrace,” my father yells, his fifth hit sending me to the floor thanks to the force of his fist, and I don’t even bother trying to talk.
Talking only ever makes it worse.
“I give you everything, love, money, freedom, the legacy fucking last name, and this is how you repay me.” I feel his boot connect with my ribs, and a sharp, pained gasp is pulled from the back of my throat.
Not that he cares, he does it two more times before he pulls back, straightening the cuffs of his shirt.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, not to fight back, but just to hold onto something, to keep myself steady. I will myself not to cry, but my eyes burn with tears anyway and I blink hard, forcing them away, keeping my gaze on the floor so he doesn’t see them.
I watch him retreat in my peripheral, grabbing something from his briefcase before striding back over to me.
“Do you know what this fucking looks like?” He hits me with the rolled up paper while I’m on my hands and knees, striking with precision until he drags me up, one of his hands closing around my throat.
“What are people going to say when they see my son pictured with this abomination?”
He unfolds the paper with his free hand and I let my eyes shift to the picture he is showing me.
It’s three shots of Matteo and I from the last month, all taken from varying locations, and my only silver lining is that I look perfectly presentable in all of them.
There is one of us sightseeing and two from entering and leaving fancy restaurants, nothing nefarious about any of them, but try telling that to my father.
Especially when the headline reads ‘Billionaire Sons Summer Tour’.
“You’re supposed to be keeping the family name clean, not mingling with the likes of him.” His words should cut deeper, but honestly I’m used to them. I’m just glad Matteo isn’t here to hear them too.
“He’s just a friend,” I tell him firmly, but the back of his hand connects with my face before I can even get the words out.
“Don’t fucking talk back to me.”
I feel blood trickle down from my lip, as his hand tightens around my throat, and I know the second he feels it because his eyes darken.
He is pulling my shirt down. sneering in disgust before I can even plead another word.
Then the necklace that Wilder bought me is being roughly ripped from my neck and tossed aside.
“I thought I warned you about this shit,” he says calmly, almost too calmly, and my entire body starts to ache.
“You and your fucking disgusting habits, you make me sick.” His hand comes back to tighten around my throat once more, and when I feel him start to cut off my breath, I make a mental note to buy more makeup.
I won’t have enough to cover up the bruises.
I don’t say anything else and neither does he, just shakes his head in disappointment, and then releases me with a shove that sends me back to my knees.
“Get out of my sight.”
My hand flies up to my mouth, catching the blood before it spills on the cream carpet of the hotel, and I slowly force myself back to my feet.
“It was good to see you, sir,” I choke out. “Thank you for coming to visit.” Then I turn and walk out.
I keep my head down as I take the stairs to my floor, and make quick work of finding my room and letting myself inside. Only once the door is locked behind me do I let myself break, dropping to the floor and curling up into a ball to cry.
And the worst part?
Freddie doesn’t even play lacrosse.