Chapter 42 Violet
VIOLET
“I’m Titas Harden, by the way,” Mr. Harden adds. “It appears my son does not have quite the amount of manners to which I’d initially given him credit. You may call me Mr. Harden.”
Ignoring the jab at my boyfriend, I take a sip of my champagne as the intensity grows around the table. “He probably didn’t think it was necessary,” I reply. “After all, everyone around here knows who you are, Mr. Harden.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Then, I assume you would be willing to return the favor?”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Oh, uh.” I take another bite of salad, procrastinating like a seasoned pro. I probably should’ve prepared for a question like this, but I assumed he was too self-centered to even care about my attendance, let alone care enough to ask me anything personal.
“Name’s Violet,” Jagger answers for me. “As you already know. She goes to HHU, and is working on her major in public policy.”
“I believe I asked Violet to tell me about herself. Not you,” Mr. Harden warns.
A twitch hits just beneath my right eye as I stare at the man across from me. Okay, so he’s an even bigger asshole than I initially gave him credit for. Awesome.
“Jagger’s right,” I answer. “I go to school with Jagger and the rest of your sons. Like he said, I’m also working on my major in—”
“And where are you from, Miss Violet?”
With a terribly-veiled scoff, Ford reaches across Cobie and steals his almost empty glass, downing what’s left in one swallow.
“Is there a problem, Ford?” Mr. Harden challenges.
“Not at all,” Ford volleys. “I love a good interrogation, especially when we all know you already have the answers.”
Mr. Harden’s glare turns even more frigid, though I doubt Ford notices. He’s too drunk.
Pulse racing, I snag the linen napkin on the table and smooth it onto my lap.
Is all night going to be like this? Walking on eggshells while ignoring thinly veiled insults?
No wonder Jagger offered to turn his truck around and take us back to his place.
Now that I’ve met his father, I think I chose wrong.
What was his question again? Oh. Right. Where am I from.
Ford’s totally right. Mr. Harden already knows the answer.
He simply wants to hear me say it. “I’m from the south side of Harden Heights,” I tell him.
“You mean, The Drift.” It isn’t a question. It’s a statement.
“Uh, yes?” I force a smile while seriously regretting the decision to bring the spotlight back to me.
Desperate to be rid of it as quickly as possible, I add, “By the way, the banquet is beautiful. I’m not sure if you had a personal hand in organizing this event or if you have a knack for hiring the right people, but I’m very impressed. ”
“Tell me about your family.”
Welp. So much for getting rid of his attention.
“I’m an only child, or at least as far as I know,” I add dryly but realize I’m the only one in on the inside joke. Clearing my throat, I explain, “My dad liked to step in and out of my mom’s life, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he, you know—”
“Fucked anything that walked?” Mr. Harden finishes for me.
My lips press into a thin line, and Jagger’s body hardens beside me. I grab his knee beneath the table, silently begging him to let it go as I answer Mr. Harden. “You’ll have to ask my father that question.”
“Do you take after him?” Mr. Harden challenges. “Do you fuck—”
The clatter of Jagger’s fork hitting his plate cuts his father off. “I think that’s enough interrogating for one night.”
Mr. Harden’s attention flicks to his oldest. “Is it?”
“Yes.” Like steel, Jagger’s body hardens even more. “It is.”
With a low, humorless chuckle, Jagger’s father counters, “You cannot expect me to sit idly by when you request a plus-one to an exclusive event such as this. Fuck whoever you want, son, but bring her to a Harden event, and there will be expectations.”
Jagger’s upper lip curls, his knuckles white as he rests his fists on the cream-colored table cloth. “Disrespect her again,” he growls.
“I didn’t disrespect her, I disrespected her father. And, what is his name?” Mr. Harden continues as if his son isn’t fuming beside me.
Jagger’s statement is a warning. A dare.
And I really don’t want to see what happens if his dad is stupid enough to push him further.
The hostility ratchets up to an all-time high.
And it isn’t only Jagger. Ford’s sober as a nun, like all the drinking was an act, and Hawke’s spine is like a steel rod.
Meanwhile, Cobie’s staring at her lap like she wishes the ground would open up and swallow her whole, just to keep her from witnessing this conversation.
I don’t blame her. This is awkward as hell, and it’s all my fault.
Okay, that’s not true. It’s one hundred percent Jagger’s father’s fault.
Seriously, could he be any more of an asshole?
But that’s the thing. What’s the worst he can do?
Be a dick about my upbringing and where I was raised?
Surprise. I’m well-aware it was a shit show.
There’s no need to ruin a perfectly good evening by dancing around it.
With that in mind, I keep my hand where it is on Jagger's knee and run my thumb along the outside in a gentle sweeping motion, hoping he reads the movement for what it is. I’m okay.
I can handle this asshole. Hell, I’ve handled a lot worse than him in my relatively short life.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. “My father’s name is Virgil Reeves. ”
“And your mother’s?” Mr. Harden questions.
”My mother’s name was Mary Hart.”
The fork in his hand stalls out an inch from his mouth. “Was?”
Yeesh. He really is in interrogation mode. I clear my throat, ready to end this conversation as quickly as possible. “She, uh, she passed away.”
I wait for the obligatory condolences which come anytime I mention my mother’s death, but it never comes.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Mr. Harden offers. “Since your father was fucking anything that–”
“You gonna let this continue?” Hawke demands with a death glare pointed directly at Jagger.
“I’m going to get a drink.” Cobie stands. “Hawke? Ford? You coming?”
Ford rests his elbows on the table. “Nah, we’re good here.”
“Violet, why don’t you go with Cobie?” Jagger suggests, but his pinpoint stare is directed across from me. “Get a drink so I can have a quick conversation with my father—”
“I’m not sure losing a parent is ever for the best,” I say, refusing to let this asshole bully me no matter how much imaginary power he has.
“In any circumstance,” I add. “But, since you clearly want the full story, here it is. My mom left two years after my dad showed up on our doorstep. Then, poof. Nothing. A few years later, she was pronounced legally dead, and my dad’s temporary custody of me was moved to full.
The rest, as they say, is history. A really shitty history.
And the fact you have the audacity to say it’s for the best feels like a new low, even for you. ”
“Well, shit,” Ford mutters. I don’t miss the amusement laced in his surprise, and I doubt his brothers do, either.
Ignoring him, Mr. Harden addresses me. “You’re right, Miss Reeves.”
Hawke turns to Ford. “Did Tight Ass just admit he’s wrong?”
“Sh, I’m watching history be made,” Ford says into his glass.
“Don’t act so surprised, boys,” their father chides.
“Just because I’m rarely wrong doesn’t mean I’m unable to acknowledge when I am.
” Mr. Harden takes a bite of his meal, slowly chewing.
Well aware he holds the attention of every person at this table, he basks in it.
The attention. The looks. The curiosity.
He likes this. Maybe a little too much. I can’t help but wonder what else he’d do to stay in the spotlight. To keep the focus on him.
“You said so yourself, Miss Reeves,” he continues after washing down his bite with a bit of his drink.
“I have a knack for hiring the right people, and from what they’ve found…
” With a quiet clink, he sets the glass back onto the table, giving me his full attention.
“Your father did not take it well. Being forced to have full custody of a child he never wanted.”
Jagger’s muscles tense beneath my hand, proving he’s this close to reaching over and grabbing his father by the throat.
Okay, that’s probably a little over-the-top, but also…
is it? I glance up at Jagger, offering him the softest smile I can muster.
“No. No, he did not take it well, but I think everyone at this table can agree that sometimes we’re given shitty parents, and it is what it is.
” I give Titas my full attention once more.
“However, without his assholery, I would’ve never met your son, so I guess things turned out for the best.”
“For you, I believe it,” he murmurs. “And you are a pretty thing—”
“Enough,” Jagger growls.
“Nah, let him keep talking,” Ford interjects, his voice thick with sarcasm. “This is definitely the way to keep us in line. Right, Hawke?”
Hawke glares at his father. “Really knocking it out of the park, Tight Ass.”
Tossing his head back, Mr. Harden laughs.
And the sound? It’s condescending and sarcastic and disrespectful in a way I can’t even wrap my head around.
I always knew I had an asshole for a father.
I always knew Jagger’s upbringing wasn’t the picnic it may appear from south of Harden Heights.
But this? Seeing their own father laugh in their faces after hitting on one of their girlfriends?
It manages to lower the already subterranean perspective I had of him.
“Is that a problem? Pointing out that my sons have an affinity for pretty things?” Mr. Harden smirks. “You do know it’s genetic. Don’t you, boys? Yes, we all love our pretty things.” He cocks his head. “Take your mother for example—”
Hawke slams his hand onto the table, the silverware clattering in response, and I flinch at the sound.
“Right,” Mr. Harden murmurs with an icy undertone, chilling me in its wake. “Best not to discuss it.” He wipes the edge of his mouth with his napkin. “Would you care to dance, Violet?”
What?
“She will not be dancing with you,” Jagger grits out. “In fact, she will not be alone with you. Ever.”
“Worried I’ll steal your girl, Jagger?”
“Worried I’ll end you?” he counters, pushing to his feet like he’s ready to throw down right here. Right now.
My heart jumps in my throat as I stare up at him. The vein in his neck bulges. His eyes are nothing but slits. And his hands are fisted at his sides. Welp. Titas did it. He finally pushed Jagger over the edge. This is bad. This is very bad. But I don’t know what to do.
What can I do?
Titas’s amusement snaps to something darker.
More sinister. With his ass still firmly in his seat, he warns, “Careful, boy.” A shiver races down my spine.
“You might think this is your world. You might think you have power and control in the facade you’ve built using my money and my name, but if you cause a scene in this moment, you will regret it. Do you understand?”
Okay, so now we’re just openly threatening people. Perfect. I turn to Hawke, then Ford, silently begging them to fix this. To do something. Neither of them move a muscle. But I don’t miss the way their attention shifts from their father to Jagger and back again. Waiting. Anticipating.
They’re waiting for Jagger to take the lead.
I’ve seen it a dozen times now, and even though I appreciate their silent camaraderie, there are a lot of people here.
A lot of people. And this isn’t one of their Harden Nights in The Drift.
These people have cameras and money and connections.
The last thing Jagger needs is a public fallout with his father.
Slowly, I stand, tossing my napkin onto the dinner plate before threading my fingers with Jagger’s. By some miracle, he lets me, but his expression stays the same.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Mind if you show me where the bathroom is?”
With a glare that could curdle milk, Jagger gives his father one final look, then turns, taking me with him until we’re out of sight. But even then, it feels impossible to breathe, let alone wrap my head around what the hell just happened in the ballroom.
So that was the infamous Titas Harden. It’s official. I don’t like him.