34. Thirty-Four #2
“Hmmm, I do like the broken ones the best,” replied the suited stranger.
My father smiled and walked back towards his desk, bringing the photo with him.
“One month in your house, Daniel, and I assure you, Antoinette will be the perfect wife.”
He sat down and set the whiskey to one side and the photo to the other, “As soon as this deal is signed, you can finally dispose of Marissa. That pussy’s long past its prime anyway.”
Father quickly scribbled something onto the pages in front of him before turning them and sliding them over to the other man, this Daniel, with one final comment, “Consider it compensation for what happened with Rachel.”
The other man said nothing at first, didn’t move really, but then father shoved the photo over to him.
All I could see was the man’s suit-clad wrist as he picked up the photo.
I fought to control my breathing as he held my sweet sister’s picture in his hands.
Taken upon her return to us last September, Father had forced her to attend the press conference dressed in my favourite shade of princess pink.
The same colour as her childhood bedroom, the same colour I’d ensured covered the walls of her room at the penthouse, too.
At the time, I thought he’d done it as a thank you gift for me, wrapping her up like my perfect present.
Now, as I watched him hand that photo to the man who, in turn, ran his fingers over my sister’s image, practically stroking her face.
A face that belonged only to me, I knew that all my father’s promises had been lies.
My father might think I was stupid. He might have seen me as nothing more than a tool for him to leverage, but I was the tool he himself had carved.
And one of the things he’d carved into me was the ability to wait, to hold the line for the right moment to strike.
So, despite the scorching desire to round the corner, kill my father and this elusive business partner of his, I stayed my hand and did what Rafe had taught me to do in those early summers, I listened for weaknesses.
When this stranger, Daniel, eventually set the photo down, it was followed by the scratching of pen on paper. Then, the voice–not Father’s–came again, “You know, we’ll have to deal with my son, too.”
“That is easily arranged.”
“Is it?”
“Oh yes, I think so.”
The leather of the office chairs squeaked as both men stood, preparing for the inevitable handshake that was always part of Father’s business dealings, savoury or not.
It was also a sign their meeting was coming to an end.
As I heard their parting, “Pleasure doing business with you as always, Rothberg,” I retreated back toward the lobby.
This was an office after all, and since this was the executive floor, the lobby was packed with secretarial desks, one for each executive.
Meaning there were lots of places to hide and watch while the man, who I could now see had curly dark hair laced with streaks of gray and the same staunch posture as father, made his way to the elevators.
He had to be at least Father’s age, if not older.
He was giving away my prize. Mine. To this old fucker.
I’d kill them both before I let that happen.
I could have taken what I wanted long ago.
I should have. I’d been an idiot, too busy being a good and dutiful son to see what my father was really doing.
When the elevator dinged and the doors opened, the man stepped inside.
As soon as the click of the door closing sounded I sprung from hiding spot and strode back down the hall to Father’s office. This time, whistling as I went.
“Francis?” He questioned as stepped inside, “Nice to see you, son,” he then pulled me into a one-armed hug, before guiding me into his office chair just like he’d done with Daniel earlier.
It was like a choreographed dance for him.
I would keep dancing to his tune, but not for much longer, so I sat.
“You didn’t happen to pass anyone in the hallway?” He asked, his eyes narrowing the smallest touch as he watched for my answer.
“Nah, no one out there,” I thumbed in the direction of the desks.
He sat down in his own chair and his shoulders relaxed–as much as they ever did.
“So, things went smoothly at the warehouse.”
I gave him the rundown of the day’s events.
“Excellent work, son,” he clapped me on the shoulder, “But now, I have one more favour to ask of you,”
“All you have to do is ask, Father,” I simpered.
“That boy you mentioned, Xavier, was it?” My brain stumbled for a second, wondering what Xavier had to do with anything. And then it dawned on me. Xavier. Rothberg.
“Yes, Father.”
“I think you need to deal with that. Or rather, we need to deal with that.”
I smiled like the suggestion brought me joy, which of course, it did. “Of course. What do you want me to do?”
While he talked, I grinned, forming my own plan. Who says lightening never strikes twice. Stephanie might have fucked up getting rid of Xavier Rothberg the first time, but now I was being handed a chance to fix that and screw my old man in the process.