22. Roman
ROMAN
T his suit is itchy.
The material itself is perfect, like silk on the skin, each millimeter of fabric fitting my body like it was cut specifically for me. But I’m suffocating inside of it.
I don’t know if that’s from the clothing itself or because the thought of public speaking makes me want to die, but I’m about five minutes away from being at the podium that’s perched in front of a dozen reporters with giant tripod cameras and microphones aimed directly at me.
We’re at the foot of the gazebo in the middle of the town square.
It’s busier today than it was when I arrived in town the other night, and definitely busier than when I snuck downtown at two in the morning to tag a building.
Businesses are open, the sun is shining, and people are out for their day. Everyone seems to know about this press conference my father’s called, so beyond the reporters, there are rubber-necking citizens loitering around and filling out the rest of the grassy knolls.
There’s a street busker a few yards away, sitting underneath a tree in the shade and strumming a love song on their guitar, and another sitting on a bench with a small flock of pigeons nibbling pieces of bread in front of them, but everyone else keeps stealing glances our way, like they’re waiting for the real show to start.
I’ve always considered Rosebrook Falls to be a small town, but seeing it come alive with its residents gives me a new perspective.
My father’s press secretary is at the microphone, answering questions from nosy reporters.
My dad is standing next to me, off to the right side, and he pats me on the shoulder. I tear my eyes away from the podium and glance at him. A giant grin spreads across his face like he’s excited I’m here. Like he’s proud to have me next to him.
It makes me feel…I don’t know, weird.
I don’t trust it.
And I hate that there’s a part of me that revels in that smile from him, as if the kid inside me is bursting to lap up the approval like water.
Frederick’s next to my father, stoic and silent.
The press secretary at the podium finishes, and the buzz in the audience draws my attention to the open grassy area surrounding the gazebo, my eyes searching for the girl I know I should force from my mind but for some reason can’t.
Juliette.
I’ve thought of almost nothing else but her since coming here, and she’s in every single inch of this town.
But she’s not here. Why would she be?
My father nudges my shoulder. “You ready for this, son?”
The question makes my mouth go dry. Even being here in the first place feels like betraying my past, but a piece of me aches when he calls me son , like an old injury throbbing from the rain.
I look toward the reporters again, my stomach tensing. “Am I talking to them?”
He eyes me thoughtfully for a moment. “Maybe.”
Frederick leans in close, his hand covering his mouth like he’s coughing. I imagine he’s covering his mouth so nobody can decipher what he’s saying. “Marcus, you can’t be serious. He hasn’t had any media training. Who knows what he’ll say?”
“You can stop them from running anything that would be detrimental, can’t you?”
Frederick grits his teeth, his gaze sliding over the reporters. “There’s no guarantee they’ll listen.”
My father hums, nodding along, and he slides his gaze back to me.
It’s more than obvious that he takes Frederick’s advice very seriously.
“Your lack of confidence is inspiring. I’m more than capable of fielding a few questions,” I drawl, giving Frederick a lazy grin.
“Just don’t mention any of the papers you signed,” he snipes.
I shrug. “Sure, why would they care about the new stipulations on my inheritance, anyway?”
Frederick hums noncommittally.
I could give a fuck about what he thinks.
In fact, the only thing I care about is that I can’t get my mind off that article I saw this morning on my way here.
Preston Ascott. Stupid name.
The thought of him with Juliette makes my head swim and my stomach turn.
The woman who was at the podium makes her way to us, her warm brown skin sheening from the heat of the day and her blue pantsuit crisp and straight.
She nods at my father, who clears his throat, locks his eyes with me one last time, and then straightens his spine and waltzes to the microphone like the world bends in his favor with every step.
If I didn’t despise him so much, it would almost be inspiring to watch.
“Good afternoon,” he says. “Thank you to everyone for making the time to be here today. As you all are aware, the Montgomery Organization is built on a foundation of family. Trust. Longevity. In fact, it was my great-grandfather who built this town with his own hands. Crafted the very gazebo we’re all standing in front of.
” He turns to wave his arm at the structure behind us, his eyes falling on the sign that says This park made possible by Calloway Enterprises in front of it.
“Despite others trying to stake the claim.”
His face drops so imperceptibly, I’m sure I’m the only one who notices.
“Some call it nepotism; others call it a foundation of legacy. The truth is, maybe it’s a little of both.”
This earns chuckles from the crowd, and I won’t lie, I’m drawn in.
My father is a fantastic public speaker.
It makes me wonder why he’s the one on the outskirts of town while the Calloways have dipped their hands into everything.
It seems like he’s losing a game he should be a master at playing.
“I know a lot of you have been hoping for some front-page-worthy gossip from me for a long time.” He looks pointedly to a person in the front, standing with a microphone labeled The Rosebrook Rag .
There’s a shuffling of movement when he pauses and a few clicks of cameras.
My eyes follow the commotion and then lock on Paxton Calloway, who I know now is the oldest son and set to inherit everything that comes with the Calloway name.
He’s by himself in a black suit with an open collar, his shoulder leaned against a streetlamp with his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
As if he’s only here to observe along with everyone else.
He’s wearing sunglasses, but I know he’s looking at me.
Something dangerous flashes in my father’s gaze. “I also know that some of you were hoping the Montgomery line would die with me. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint.”
Now the gasps are audible.
“Twenty-three years ago, I made a mistake.”
The word hits me like a battering ram, hollowing out my chest and scattering the pieces to my stomach.
“I’m not a perfect man,” he continues. “And the truth is I fell in love despite being married. There were consequences to that mistake, ones that I regret.”
More eyes flicker toward me, a few camera lenses turning my way.
Regret.
Consequences.
He’s talking about me, of course. I’m the consequence of his actions, his biggest regret. He speaks as though he’s still ashamed, as though he’d give anything to go back and make it so I didn’t exist at all.
You’d think after all this time, I’d be numb to the sharp sting of his words.
“But out of our lowest points can come our greatest accomplishments, and after years of not being able to reach him—of being in the dark, thinking he was gone forever—I’m happy to say that sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. Especially now that my only son is home. Roman Montgomery.”
I don’t have time to focus on the lies he spins, explaining the fake deaths, before I’m being ushered to the podium to stand next to him.
Something unsettling hits me heavy in the gut, but I stiffen my spine. If I don’t do this, Brooklynn won’t be taken care of.
And they need me, even if it means I have to become the spitting image of the devil.