CHAPTER FIVE
SHAY
I walk into the country club, the familiar scent of polished wood and old money hitting me the moment I step through the doors and into the lobby.
Everything here is pristine—clean. White marble floors with splashes of gray that look like they’ve taken hours to polish.
Thick, brown furniture positioned perfectly.
Even the chandelier hanging above us glimmers with a certain wealth to it.
I’ve never really felt at home here. Even as a kid, I knew I didn’t fit into this world, but my dad? He thrives in it. He knows everyone, and everyone knows him—Henry Cornell, the man who’s never lost a case. The man who built his reputation on being untouchable, just like he expects me to be.
“Mr. Cornell, it’s a pleasure to have you dining with us tonight,” the woman behind the concierge desk speaks, drawing my attention to her before she moves from behind it and stops in front of us.
My dad nods and adjusts the front of his suit. “Thank you, Abigail. Would you mind showing us to the table I’ve reserved?”
I notice he doesn’t really know her name—he just did a quick glance at her name tag, but it’s important for people to feel connected to him.
It’s the reason he shines in his work. His looks help too.
He has dark hair like me, but a few gray strands pepper within it, showing his age.
His nose is a little wider too, but not enough to notice the difference unless you’re really looking at us.
His eyes are the same shape as mine, but instead of blue, they’re a deep umber.
“Of course. Follow me.”
I let my dad take the lead after Abigail as I trail behind.
We move right, passing the Royal Ballroom, as they call it, and enter the Garden Room beside it.
Normally, I don’t question my dad. He does his thing, and I do mine, all while collecting a hefty “allowance” for staying out of trouble and minding my manners when he, or any significant public figure, is around. But tonight seems odd.
Of course, we have dinners here frequently.
It’s my dad’s choice of location when meeting with city officials or other big public figures, but it normally happens in the Royal Ballroom.
To me, it’s just another way for him to throw his dick on the table and show everyone just how powerful he is.
The Garden Room is more intimate, though.
A little smaller, not as dramatic with the decor, and all around somewhat cozy in a sense.
All of the things my father does not exude.
Crystal sconces line the walls, and floral artwork hangs perfectly spaced in thick, bronze frames.
Everything is splashed in earthy tones with pops of light pastels—light coral and sky blue, just like most things in Florida, trying to bring the beach vibe inside.
The chairs are the same as the other room too, but instead of a deep royal blue, they’re a sandy tan.
Abigail leads us to a small, round table somewhat in the center of the room. It doesn’t stand out since there are numerous others positioned around it, but it still feels out of place. Dad normally prefers a back corner for conducting business.
He takes his seat, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he does, and I take the seat to his right.
“I appreciate you coming tonight,” he remarks, pulling his phone from his pocket, not even bothering to look at me.
“Not like I had a choice, Dad.” And I didn’t. This is just part of being the Golden Boy’s son.
He doesn’t bite at my comment. Instead, he just locks his phone and sets it on the table between us. “Our guests should be here any moment now.”
I nod, but my mind moves elsewhere. All day, I haven’t been able to shake the image of the ring girl from last night.
Her lips, her touch, the way she stormed out of the locker room like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
And that last thing alone is gnawing at me more than I’d like to admit.
“So, who are we meeting this time?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the thoughts of her.
He straightens his tie, a habit of his whenever he’s about to discuss something he considers important. “You’ll see soon enough. It’s… personal.”
That piques my interest. Dad doesn’t do personal. Everything with him is business, calculated and precise. If he says it’s personal, that means there is more to this than another casual dinner at the club.
Before I can press him for more information, I catch Abigail returning with a couple in tow from the corner of my eye. My dad stands, a rare smile pulling at his lips as he steps forward to greet them. I rise as well, more out of habit than anything, and then I turn my head and see her .
She’s wearing a black dress that hugs her body in all the right places, the kind that is elegant but has just enough edge to tell you she doesn’t fit in with the country club crowd—and she doesn’t care.
The neckline dips low enough to tease but not enough to give anything away.
Her hair is up too, different from last night, knotted tightly on top of her head with a few loose curls spiraling down the sides.
She isn’t over-the-top, but fuck. She looks hot.
“Shay,” my dad’s voice cuts through the haze, drawing me back to the present. He gestures to the woman standing beside her, the one I hardly even noticed, who is looking at me with an awkward, forced smile. “I’d like you to meet Sylvia Hemmingway. Sylvia, this is my son, Shay.”
Sylvia is shorter than her, but not by much.
She has blue eyes and blonde hair too—just like my mom.
It’s odd, really. Because after you lose someone, you always try to find the similarities in other people.
Sure, this woman isn’t my mother—never could be—but at a quick glance, it definitely has me doing a double take.
I nod, my throat tight as I shake her hand. I barely notice the introduction because I move my attention to focus on her instead. It’s just the two of us, and I can tell by the way her expression hardens that she’s just as confused as I am.
“And this is Blair,” my dad continues, his voice smooth and diplomatic, as if he’s introducing business partners instead of people who, until last night, had no idea the other existed.
Blair and I exchange a look. One filled with unspoken questions and a shared sense of dread. Whatever this is, it can’t be good. I can feel it in my gut.
“Shall we sit?” Sylvia suggests, her voice a little too bright like she’s trying to ease the tension.
My dad moves to pull Sylvia’s chair, so I do the same for Blair. Another habit. When I reach for the back, she does the same, letting our hands brush for the slightest second. It’s enough to send a jolt through me and remind me of everything I’ve been trying to forget today—of last night.
She pulls away quickly, her face blank as she sits down.
I settle back into my own chair, my mind racing as a waiter finally appears and takes our drink order.
I can feel how stiff Blair is next to me, and honestly, I can’t blame her.
It’s odd to see someone from the other side of my life clash with this side—the lawyer’s son’s side.
When the waiter leaves, my dad clears his throat, and leans forward slightly. “I’m sure you two are wondering why we’re here.” His tone is softer, not businesslike as usual.
He pauses briefly and glances at Sylvia, who smiles at him with unsure eyes.
Clearing his throat again, I can tell he’s about to drop a bombshell. He never seems this nervous, like ever.
“As I said, this dinner is personal,” he begins, finally gathering his bearings. And the strong, cold motherfucker is back. “Sylvia and I have been seeing each other for a few months now.”
I blink, the words not registering at first. Since my mom died, he threw himself into his work more than before. Late nights, cases that took him to different states. He’s never even had time for a single date, let alone time to be seeing someone for months. Or has he?
“And we’ve decided,” he continues, “that we want to take the next step in our relationship. We’re getting married.”
Time freezes as his words hang in the air.
The noise around me starts to dissipate, and the familiar whoosh , whoosh , whoosh of my heartbeat pounds in my ears just like before a fight.
I search his face, looking for some sort of sign this is a joke.
That he isn’t serious. He can’t be. He was never supposed to replace Mom.
But there is nothing—just the same impenetrable calm he always wears like a mask.
Blair’s hand, resting on the table, tightens into a fist. Her knuckles turn white, but she doesn’t say anything. I can see the same shock and confusion in her eyes that I’m feeling. This can’t be happening.
“You’re what?” I finally manage to say. My voice sounds far away, even to myself.
“We’re getting married,” Sylvia repeats, her tone softer than my dad’s.
She reaches out to place a hand over Blair’s, but Blair pulls away.
“You can’t be serious,” Blair says, her voice low but clear.
My dad leans back in his chair, clasping his hands together on the table. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but we wanted you both to hear it from us, to understand this is something we’re both committed to.”
I stare at him with a mix of disbelief and anger. He’s talking about this like it’s just another case he’s closing, like it’s just business as usual.
“What the hell are you thinking?” I ask, the words coming out sharper than I intended. “I don’t even know her—they don’t even know us!”
My dad’s jaw tightens. “I’m thinking it’s time to move forward, Shay. To move on.”
“Move on?” I don’t even bother to try and hide my shock at his fucking words.
“That’s enough, Shay,” he all but shouts, drawing the attention of all the people at tables around us.
I shake my head with a laugh. God forbid the prodigal son has feelings.
Blair stands from the table, shaking her head too. “This is too much, too fast.”
Her chest is heaving, and her face is scrunched up like she’s thinking too hard.
She goes to step backward to leave the table, and no one can stop her before the impact.
A waiter behind her has a tray of something on fire—probably Alaska, Florida if I had to guess.
Best dish at the club, but definitely not the best right now.
That single, clumsy step backward has her bumping into the waiter.
Within seconds, all hell breaks loose. Blair stumbles, the waiter’s tray goes down, and the tablecloth of the table beside us goes up in flames.
Screams pierce the air, and other diners across the room stand and peer over to see what’s causing all the commotion.
Blair hardly looks over her shoulder before she’s bolting away from the mess and running toward the bathroom.