Chapter Fifteen
Standing outside my father’s office door feels like being transported backwards through time, like the polished wood and the heavy silence have reached out and wrapped themselves around my throat.
I shift my weight between my socked feet, telling myself that if I’m about to receive an infamous whipping, burning or beating, I’ll be doing it in sweatpants.
It would have been more in character for me to ignore his summons, but I’m not the only one in this manor who can be harmed. I’ve brought Harper here, and despite praying to whoever is listening, we couldn’t even make it twenty-four hours before the devil himself walked in.
“Enter.” My father’s voice rolls through the wood, clipped and impatient, and for a second, I consider walking away, but pride is a cruel mistress.
I can’t let him see my weakness, especially when it’s walking around the manor in the form of a sassy brunette.
Pushing the door open and stepping inside with my chin held high, I’m pulled straight back to the moment seven-year-old me stepped inside and was struck for the first time.
I almost flinch, hearing the ghost of a crack within my head, flames licking my cheek from where he struck me.
It’s impossible to convince myself it’s not real. Not yet, anyway.
Swallowing past the haunted sting, I force air to enter my lungs.
The room smells like the same old cologne my father has been drowning himself in for decades, the blinds drawn to cast each mahogany surface in shadow.
Tall standing lamps in each corner illuminate shelves lined with books that are for show rather than purpose.
There’s no art, no comfort, no humanity.
A single glass cabinet displays awards and certificates from business councils I’ve never cared about, each plaque a silent reminder of the expectations I’ve spent years trying to outrun.
A desk dominates the room, an enormous slab of black walnut with corners sharp enough to bruise.
I know this from experience. Beside the closed laptop set to one side, there’s a single photo of me aged around twelve in a gold frame.
I hate that photo. It’s one of the prints from a magazine spread I was forced into.
The boy who stares out is free of ink, scrawny beneath designer clothing, and smirking as if he’s got the entire world eating out of his hand.
But if anyone bothered to look closer, they’d realize that smirk is covering a chasm of pain, and behind my eyes, I’m dead inside.
I’d been dead for a long time until Harper walked into my life.
And then there’s the man standing in front of his gigantic window.
Dark hair slicked back to calculated perfection, blue eyes that cut like cold glass, his tailored suit nothing more than a costume draped over rot and undeserved legacy.
He looks every inch the powerful patriarch he pretends to be, but all I see is a parasite feeding on money, fear, and the silence of people he’s broken.
It’s the same thing I see when I look at myself in the mirror.
“Close the door,” he orders. I reach back instinctively, but my hand barely grazes the handle before a force slams into it, shoving it open again so hard that it bangs against the wall.
Clayton steps inside with the casual determination of someone who knows no fear, his expression carved into something resolute and headstrong.
“What is the meaning of this?” My father hisses, his eyes narrowing instantly. Clayton doesn’t flinch, only pushes the door closed with a click of finality.
“I’ll be sitting in on this family reunion,” he says calmly, as if he hasn’t just kicked a hornet’s nest. “Harper’s orders.
” I whip my head toward him now with a glare.
Not only has he interrupted whatever my father has in store, but he’s also brought Harper’s name in here.
So much for my instruction earlier to keep her as far away from him as possible.
That I would take the heat, all they have to do is lay low and let me handle it.
My father exhales sharply, a sound that’s half annoyance and half disbelief.
“This girl has far too much power for my liking.” His fingers tap the desk like he’s seconds away from losing his temper, which honestly is his natural state.
Indecision passes through the clench of his brows, his jaw working as he glares at Clayton, willing him to back down and leave. He does not. “Fine. Sit. Both of you.”
While Father exhales, Clayton and I drop into the chairs opposite him.
The leather stretched across the cushions is stiff, made to keep visitors alert rather than comfortable.
Lowering into his own seat, keeping the desk between us, my father’s shrewd gaze studies us with open contempt before settling solely on me.
“I’d appreciate an explanation for why my home is suddenly hosting… what should I call them? Guests? Strays? Whatever they are, I didn’t authorize it.”
“They’re not here to cause problems,” I say, even if the words feel like chewing glass. “They just needed somewhere to go for a short while.”
“A short while,” my father repeats flatly.
“I am home for one day, Rhys. One. I returned to change clothes and collect what I needed before leaving again for the Zurich talks. I had plans to meet someone here tonight as well, plans I have now canceled because apparently my home has turned into a youth hostel.” Clay scoffs under his breath, and Father’s eyes snap toward him.
“If you have something to say, Mr. Michaels, I suggest you say it directly.”
Clayton braces his elbows on his knees, a fire igniting in his dark eyes.
“Rhys is telling the truth. We won’t cause trouble, we just need somewhere to recover. We’re going through a difficult time.”
“Oh, my bleeding soul. How fortunate that my door was apparently wide open to you,” Father drawls sarcastically, tapping the desk.
“And if you think my son is a truthful person, you clearly don’t know him very well.
” My father challenges me to deny it with a raised brow.
There’s nothing to challenge. I lie to him daily, just like I lie to the world about who I really am.
I’m a menace who strikes first and feels second, that’s all they know.
But not Harper. She saw through me instantly.
“You’re awfully quiet,” my father comments when the silence settles for a beat too long.
I watch the way his fingers roam and tap against the wood.
He’s twitching to pull the cigar box out of the drawer to his right, not through addiction but through habit.
I swear he hasn’t smoked in years, but he’s lit plenty. My skin serves as a testament to that.
“There’s not much to say,” I mutter, biting down on my bruised lip that’s sorely missing its lip ring. A grunt escapes my father’s throat.
“Oh, I believe there is much to say. Shall we start with what the fuck happened at your birthday gala? How about why that girl is still lingering around with both of you, when I clearly stated she was to put a stop to this nonsense?”
“She did put a stop to it,” Clayton interjects. My father’s face tightens, his patience running thin. “It seems we didn’t get the memo.”
“Then perhaps you should get the fucking memo,” his fist bangs on the table. Every vein in my body tightens, pinning me immobile in my seat.
It’s ridiculous, after all the years I’ve spent hardening myself into something unshakable, that his voice can still instil this old fear.
That the whispers can crawl along my spine, the memory of pain licking my skin as if the wounds are raw.
Sitting here beside a man who doesn’t lower his head, who doesn’t crumble against my father’s tone, reminds me of who I’m supposed to be. How I wanted to be.
“Harper needs protecting, and until we’re in a position to do that at the academy, we’ve come here,” Clayton states coldly and cleanly.
“Will you permit us to stay?” I pin my gaze on my father, watching the way he ticks over Clayton’s manner.
I’ve spoken to my father in a similar tone before, but always in public.
His jaw ticks, his fingers tapping rhythmically.
“This is between my son and me,” he huffs, his face pinched in the way that normally precedes the removal of his belt. “Why are you here again?” Clayton sits back in the armchair and smiles without any warmth.
“Support.”
“For whom?” My father raises his brow.
“Harper, mostly, but Rhys too. Your son may be an asshole, Mr. Waversea, but he’s growing on me.” My father clicks his tongue, a darkness sweeping over his features as he points a finger between the two of us.
“If this is some gay poly shit–”
“It’s not,” I jump into the conversation, putting an end to that notion.
My father’s glare zeroes in, hunting for any hint that I’m lying now.
Heaven forbid any more scandals should put his precious reputation on the line.
I’m sure there’s been a media storm after the birthday gala that ended in a swarm of police cars, and my frat house trashed by my own hand.
Finding the conclusion he’s looking for, my father sighs and pushes to his feet.
We follow suit, standing shoulder to shoulder to face down the monster of my nightmares.
I hate to admit, there’s something comforting in not being in here alone.
It doesn’t shift the gnawing ache in my chest, but it dulls the edges.
My father ignores the companion at my side and focuses on me again.