37. Mason
THIRTY-SEVEN
MASON
The Hoppenstein Hotel is one of the nicest in Phoenix, and as we walk through the back entrance, making our way to the presidential suite, I scoff at the predictability. Over a decade later and still, nothing has changed.
There’s security at the entry, and my breath sticks to my lungs as Frank pushes open the door, leading me into the main sitting area. My eyes glance around, heart smacking my rib cage, as I look for signs of life. My mother. My father. Olivia. But they’re nowhere to be found.
I’m not sure what I expected, but an empty room wasn’t it.
“Your father is in the boardroom,” Frank says. “Let me check if that’s where he wants to see you.” He smiles, blinding me with his chemically whitened teeth. “Make yourself at home.”
I shake my head, walking to the couch in the center of the room and taking a seat. There’s an unlit Cuban resting on a crystal ashtray, and I take it upon myself to light it up. I sit back and enjoy the flavor on my tongue.
If I’m here in Hell, I might as well take advantage of the hospitality.
“Alexander.”
My gut twists so tight, it steals my breath. His voice is just as I remember it, sending a chill down my spine. Anger brews in my stomach as I resist the natural urge to sit straighter and call him sir.
But that boy was stomped from existence the night he ripped out my heart and ground it to dust.
Fuck him.
I’d rather die than let him know the lifelong tools he beat into me are still ingrained.
I lean back on the couch, rolling the stogie between my fingers.
He moves to stand in front of me, hands in his pockets, and I take the moment to soak him in. I’ve seen him on television, but it’s different getting to stare at the man who shaped your nightmares up close. His hair is still dark, grayer now at the temples, and he looks as polished as ever in a pair of dress pants and a crisp white button-down.
He nods toward the Cuban. “Those were a gift.”
I puff on the cigar, letting the embers sit heavy on my tongue, before blowing it directly into his face.
He grimaces, moving to sit in the chair opposite me, his eyes trailing along the ink on my arms. Crossing his legs, his hand comes up to rub at his chin. “Ten years and you have nothing to say?”
There are a thousand things I want to say. A million questions I’m desperate to ask. My chest fucking aches with the need for answers. But I arch my brow, keeping silent. Deep down, I knew that I would end up here. I just didn’t know it would be so soon.
I puff on the cigar one more time before placing it back on the ashtray, leaning forward and blowing out a heavy breath. “We said everything we needed to say ten years ago.”
He scoffs. “Come on now, Alexander. You were a child back then. Barely an adult. Are you still upset about that?”
Fire rages through my blood, my stomach churning in disgust. I inhale deeply to calm myself, bringing up memories of the books I read back when I was trying to rid myself of the pain from losing family.
“Never expect a narcissist to admit their wrongdoing. They’ll paint themselves as the hero or the victim, but they’ll never be the villain.”
I bite back the retort that’s sitting heavy on my tongue.
His eyes peer into mine, his gaze calculated, like he’s weighing his options and trying to figure out what to say. “Why did you leave?”
“Why didn’t you come find me?” I retort.
He chuckles, standing up and walking to the corner of the room, pouring himself a brandy, the smell hitting me before he even makes it back to his seat.
It’s that smell, that oaky, pungent scent, the type that permeates the air and sinks into your pores without even trying. It makes my stomach heave, remembering the times he’d spit his words with the stench of whiskey and disappointment on his breath.
He meanders back, sitting down, the crystal tumbler dangling from his fingertips. “You didn’t want to be found.”
My chest cramps, heart squeezing at the monotony of his voice. A leopard never changes his spots, and my father has always been an empty shell, waiting to rule the world.
“I found you the moment you left,” he continues. My breath whooshes out of me. What?
“Surprised?” He grins. “Had people tracking you from the second you packed your bag and ran away like the foolish kid you’ve always been.” He sips from his tumbler. “But…people love a sob story. So as much as it pained your mother and me, we let you go. We pulled back our guys.” He lifts a brow. “You wouldn’t have been agreeable anyway.”
I expected the callous answer, but I didn’t expect for it to punch me in the chest, knocking the breath from my lungs and bruising my twisted heart.
“You killed my child.” I grit my teeth, my anger simmering like water in a pan. “I think I had the right.”
He rolls his eyes. “So I gave Olivia a little incentive to go get things taken care of. Big deal.” He shrugs.
“Bold stance.” I smirk. “Your constituents know you feel that way?”
His eyes flare. “You don’t worry about what my constituents feel.”
“I know what I feel,” I burst out. Regret immediately sinks into my bones, and I pull my emotions back in, clamping them tight to my chest.
His spine straightens. “That’s always been your problem, Son. You feel too much. Don’t blame me for stepping in and making sure things were taken care of.”
I scoff. “That’s rich. You didn’t care about me and you know it. You only cared about how it would make you look.”
“You’re damn right,” he snaps. “It looked bad enough having my nineteen-year-old son engaged like some pussy-whipped bitch.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. He hasn’t changed at all. “You told me to marry her.”
He lifts his shoulders. “A miscalculation.” He takes another sip. “We thought it would look better in the polls.”
I grit my teeth, grief seeping through the fresh wounds on my heart. “It wasn’t your decision to make.”
“It was the only decision to make. Do you have any idea how it would have looked? If I can’t control my son, how can I control a country?”
My stomach churns. “Well congratulations, Dad , you lost anyway.”
His eyes narrow. “I won’t this time.”
A smirk lines my mouth, hatred flowing through my veins and making my tongue sharp. “How can you be so sure?”
He smiles wide. “Because now I have you.”
My chest rattles, confusion burning a hole through my insides. “You really don’t.”
Frank comes out of the woodwork, stepping from the shadows and into our line of sight. I should have known he was listening in the wings. It isn’t like Thomas Wells to ever have a sincere face-to-face conversation without some backup.
“Alexander, you’re a smart man,” Frank says. “Finding a lost son a decade after he went missing will be worldwide headline news. You can imagine what that will do with the voters.”
My father’s eyes sparkle. “You’re my ticket into the White House, Son.”
Panic wrings my insides. “God forbid you let your merit and ideals get you there.”
Frank shakes his head. “People don’t vote on ideals. Not anymore.”
I stand up. “This is ridiculous. There’s a reason I stayed away all these years. I have no interest in helping you.”
My father’s brows rise to his hairline as he leans back in his seat. “I don’t remember giving you a choice.”
“I’m not a kid anymore. I won’t just jump and ask how high.”
He hums. “Rumor has it you spend a lot of time around kids these days.”
My blood freezes, his insinuation spreading through me like a sickness. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs. “Collateral.”
Fear grips my heart and squeezes. “You wouldn’t,” I rasp.
“I’m just a father willing to do anything to get back his child.” He takes another sip from his glass. “Surely you understand.”
The jab doesn’t go unnoticed, grief pulsing hot and sharp through my chest. But I tamp it down, knowing that a reaction will let him know where I stand. And the quickest way to lose the battle is by showing all your cards. But I’ll be damned if I let him do anything that would put Lily or her son in harm’s way, and he knows it. I was so stupid to touch her in public, right after running into Olivia. There’s no way they didn’t follow us home.
“Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.”
Sighing, I sit back down, running a hand through my hair and nodding. And with my agreement comes the knowledge that every plan I made revolving around Lily is now nothing more than a dream. A “what could have been” moment.
They drop me back off at my motel room a few hours later, reminding me once more what’s at stake if I try to disappear. I grab The Art of War that’s propped on the corner of the desk and open it, my eyes scouring for words of advice—something to calm the storm that’s raging through my body.
“All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.”
As long as Lily is here, as long as she’s alone, she’ll be vulnerable.
She can’t stay. But she can’t be with me either.
So with my heart cracking from the weight of my decision, I pull out my phone, and I make the call I didn’t want to make.
My chest burns deeper with every ring.
“Mason.” His voice is sharp.
Blowing out a breath, my stomach churning more with every breath I take, I force the words from my lips.
“Chase. I found her.”