Chapter 36
SEBASTIAN
Taylor moved in a slow circle, taking in the Christmas decorations adorning the hotel’s grand lobby. “Fancy,” he murmured.
“Only the best for Bernadette and Charles Carruthers.”
I’d spent a lot of Christmases in this hotel as a child, convinced that everyone’s family gathered in penthouses and ordered from room service and argued loudly, not caring if they disturbed the neighbors.
It wasn’t until college that I realized my childhood was the exception, that people could save up their whole lives and still never be able to afford to stay here.
Not that any of it had ever been good enough for my mother. If I had paid closer attention back then, I would have realized it would become a recurring theme in my life. Tonight’s conversation wouldn’t be any different. I could already hear her cataloguing all the ways I’d disappointed them.
I fished my phone out of my pocket to let them know I was on my way up.
En route to the elevator, a woman passed us, trailed by a bellman pushing a cart that was nearly overflowing with Louis Vuitton luggage. Inside her purse was a small animal. I thought it was a dog, but it could have just as easily been a ferret.
Taylor shook his head. “I sometimes forget how rich your family is.”
“It’s not like you’re poor,” I pointed out, guiding him to the bank of cars dedicated to the highest floors.
While it was true he'd gotten into some financial difficulty a few years back, he was making close to two million dollars a year now when you factored in his salary and his endorsement deals. He could afford to stay in places like this if he wanted to, though I didn’t think he ever would—stuffy wasn’t really his style.
“No, that's true, but I don’t think I’d ever be comfortable with your kind of rich.”
“Don’t let my mother hear you say that.”
He mimed zipping his lips. “I’m just here for emotional support. I don’t plan on letting your parents hear me say anything.”
His lips turned down in a frown. “Unless they say something shitty about you. In which case, I can’t be held liable for my actions.”
“I’d pay good money to see you go toe to toe with them.”
The truth was, I couldn’t imagine doing this without him. And not just tonight.
If the past month had taught me anything, it was that having someone in my corner who had no agenda, someone who wanted me for me and not what I could do for them, was essential to my happiness and well-being.
It wasn't something I'd ever experienced before, and I wasn’t sure I'd ever have the words to adequately express how much it meant to me.
Upstairs, I rapped three times on the door, and a few seconds later, it swung open to reveal my father standing there, jacket off, tie loosened, hair askew.
His eyes darted quickly to Taylor standing at my side, then back to me, his brows dipping.
But rather than commenting on Taylor’s presence, he pulled the door wide and took a step to the side, gesturing for us to enter.
“Thank you for coming.”
“It didn’t sound like I had a choice.”
“You always have a choice,” he grumbled.
“Hmm,” I hummed, the sound communicating exactly how much I believed that.
He crossed the room to ease himself down into one of the wingback chairs by the window, reaching for a glass of whiskey on the table next to it.
My mother stood at the bar, her back to us, fixing what I assumed was a classic gin martini. It was her signature cocktail, if you considered a drink you only indulged in a couple of times a year signature. She was more of a pills and plastic surgery kind of lady when it came to stress management.
Taylor caught my eye, clocking the tension that hung in the air. I shrugged slightly. I was as confused by it as he was. You could say a lot about my parents, but, generally speaking, they were unflappable.
Now?
Completely flapped.
My mother finally turned, her eyes widening a fraction of an inch. “What’s he doing here?”
“I asked him to be here,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest in a gesture I knew made me look defensive, but I couldn't be bothered to care. I was defensive.
“Why?” She tilted her head, eyeing him speculatively.
My gaze bounced between my parents—my mother’s face pinched with disdain and my father’s appearing resigned. Weary, even. It wasn’t an expression I was used to seeing on him. Haughty? Arrogant? Spiteful, even? Yes. But this? No. Never this.
“Because he’s important to me,” I said slowly, not quite understanding what we’d walked into. My parents had never been outwardly emotional people, so this charged atmosphere was throwing me for a loop.
My father leaned slightly forward. “Important, the way Wyatt was important to you?”
After Wyatt’s announcement—after all the gossip about me had reached a fever pitch—the voicemails my father had left me had been angry and accusatory. Now, he just sounded curious.
I didn’t owe him an answer. Hell, I didn’t owe them anything. But I wanted to do this for me. For the life I wanted to lead.
“No, never like that,” I said, my tone firm.
My mother sat primly on the edge of the sofa, taking a small sip of her cocktail. “So you weren’t the secret lover Hastings referenced in his announcement?” She raised an imperious eyebrow, daring me to contradict the allegation.
“Oh no. That was totally me.” I huffed out a cynical laugh, running my hand through my hair.
“But he’s married,” she pointed out, her face screwing up in confusion as much as the Botox would allow.
As if that was the most important detail in this whole, sordid affair.
As if Wyatt’s infidelity was somehow more shocking than his secret, years-long relationship with his chief strategist. But that was who my mother was at her core: a traditionalist.
“Yes. I’m well aware.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, more to herself than me, setting her drink to the side.
“That makes two of us,” Taylor muttered under his breath.
“Not helpful,” I whispered out the side of my mouth.
“Sorry,” he apologized, sufficiently chastised.
“If it makes you feel any better, we weren’t together once he was married.”
“So you broke it off with him when he met Celine?”
I shrugged. “Sure, let’s go with that.”
I heard Taylor snicker, and I fought my own grin.
“You don’t need to be flippant.”
I shoved my hands into my pockets and rocked back on my heels, feeling like a five-year-old being called to task. I hated it when these people made me feel small. “Look, I don’t know what you want from me.”
“The truth would be a good start,” my father interjected.
“Is that really what you want?” I shot back.
He smacked his hands to his thighs and pushed to his feet, striding toward me. “We’re your parents. I want you to show us some goddamn respect.”
Taylor stepped in front of me, blocking his path. “Back off.”
From the couch, my mother snorted. My gaze shot her way for a brief second, wondering what that sound meant, before landing back on my father, who had a thick vein standing out on his forehead.
I dropped my hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “It’s okay. My dad is a lot of things, but he’s not violent. He wouldn’t dare. Would you, Dad?”
I felt Taylor relax beneath my touch, and he glanced back at me over his shoulder. “You sure?”
I nodded. “Yeah. He’ll stomp around, huffing and puffing. Maybe even throw a glass or two to get his point across, but he’s never put his hands on us.”
My dad's eyes moved to Taylor, tracking across his shoulders, down his arms, and back up to his face, taking inventory of the situation. Taylor wasn’t tall, not by Carruthers standards, but he was six feet of hard, solid muscle.
And he was ready to put that body on the line to defend me.
I couldn’t see Taylor’s face, but my father could, and whatever he saw there made him take a giant step back
Taylor moved reluctantly to my side, his legs braced wide, and his arms crossed over his chest, a scowl fixed firmly on his face.
I fought a grin, my cheeks quivering. There was nothing even remotely funny about this situation, but I couldn't help but think he looked like a bouncer who’d decided the crowd before him was trouble, and he was more than fine with getting his hands dirty.
“Sit down, Charles,” my mother drawled from her perch on the sofa. “Your posturing is undignified.”
“Undignified?” He turned to face her, sputtering. “I’m not the one bringing shame on this family!”
She raised that damn eyebrow again, the one that could always convey more than most people could ever communicate with a full, spoken sentence. “Is that really the discussion you want to be having right now?”
My father threw his hands up in the air and let loose a snort as he stalked back to his chair. “Fine.”
My mother smoothed her skirt with both hands and sat back slightly, though her posture remained stiff and formal. “You looming over me is giving me a crick in my neck. Please sit down.” Her eyes cut briefly to Taylor. “You as well, I suppose.”
“Gee, thanks,” Taylor murmured, but only loud enough for me to hear.
My father sank back into his chair, while I surveyed the setup. There was a matching wingback just to my left and two small poufs tucked beneath the coffee table that were better suited for small children than a grown man.
Taylor lifted his chin, gesturing toward the second wingback. “You take it. I’ll stand.”
I lowered myself into the chair, and Taylor moved to stand behind me, his hands settling on the back of it like my own private sentry.
My mother leaned forward to pick up her martini, watching us all with narrowed eyes. “Now, let’s discuss this like civilized adults.”
“Remind me what we’re discussing again?” I asked with faux innocence, glancing between my parents. The man who’d spent his life walking on eggshells around these people had left the building, replaced by someone who no longer had any fucks left to give.
My field of fucks was officially fallow.