Chapter 53
Chapter Fifty-Three
Callaway
The private jet lands in New York like I’m returning to a crime scene.
Not because I miss it. It’s because my father still thinks Manhattan is a throne and I’m still his obedient prince who’ll show up when summoned, smile for the cameras, and swallow whatever he pours down my throat.
Why am I here?
It’s the best time to set things straight. Harvey has pulled all the strings. Things are about to go down and to be honest, I want to watch my father fall apart in real time. Am I an asshole for wanting that?
Well I come from a long line of assholes, so no one should be surprised.
Thankfully, I have a few days off before I have to go back to the ice. We swept the first round in four games. Most guys would use this stretch to sleep, ice, rehab, go fishing, play video games, pretend they’re normal.
I’m using it to burn down my family.
Harvey meets me at the private terminal in a black coat and an expression that says I brought paperwork and a shovel.
“Morning,” he says.
“This is too fucking early,” I mutter, sliding into the back of the car. “I’m emotionally available for violence only.”
“Did you sleep during the trip?” he dares to ask.
I glare at him. “Nope. Thankfully I was on a video call half of the flight with Vesper and Monty until they fell asleep. Then it was just me thinking about what I’m going to do with my parents.” I yawn then look at the sun. “I can’t believe it’s already eight in the morning here.”
We get into the car waiting for us, and the driver pulls smoothly away from the curb, navigating the streets to take us to my family’s penthouse.
Harvey sits across from me with a slim folder on his lap, then checks his watch like we’re about to catch a matinee.
“Drink some coffee.” He points at the cupholder.
“You’ll want to be fully present for the part where your parents realize they’re not in charge. ”
I stare at him. “That was . . . almost inspiring.”
“Don’t make it weird,” he says, deadpan. “I’ll invoice you for bonding.”
“You invoice me for fucking everything,” I groan. “I’m lucky you don’t charge for breathing during working hours.”
He snorts and shakes his head.
The city blurs outside the tinted windows. New York looks the same in the way a liar looks the same—polished, expensive, confident it can get away with anything as long as it keeps smiling.
The penthouse is exactly where it has always been, the whole building an elegant, towering monument to at least three generations of Winthrops, ever since one of them had the idea to build it during the height of the Roaring Twenties. The doorman recognizes me instantly and goes rigid.
“Mr. Winthrop,” he says, careful. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”
I give him my friendliest smile. The one my mother used to praise because it made me look “approachable.” “Hi, Frank. Tell my parents I’m here for a quick . . . visit while I ruin their day.”
His eyes open wide.
I pat his shoulder on my way past. “Kidding. Mostly.”
Harvey shakes his head. “Don’t announce us. We’ll just go ahead and surprise them.” He winks at Frank as if this is a friendly family reunion. Frank relaxes and waves us inside.
The elevator ride is silent except for Harvey scrolling through his phone.
When the doors open, the penthouse smells like leather. Citrus. Something floral that’s trying too hard to be comforting but instead just reminds you of funerals during spring.
My mother sits on the cream sofa, perfect posture, perfect hair, pearls at her throat—ready to be clutched if anyone pisses her off. My father stands by the windows with a tumbler in hand, Manhattan spread behind him as if he owns the skyline.
I should tell him it’s only eight in the morning, but I doubt he gives a shit about any of it.
Daniel Kline is there too. He’s perched in an armchair with a legal pad, already wearing the face he uses when he’s about to politely ruin someone.
“Callaway,” my mother says, and she makes my name sound like a brand she’s evaluating for damage. “You look tired.”
I glance at the view. “Yeah. It’s exhausting winning and being happy. You should try it sometime.”
My father’s mouth tightens. “Are you here to accept our conditions?” he asks, sounding pretty smug. The poor asshole. “You should sit. I’ll have my assistant call the women that are interested in becoming Mrs. Callaway Livingston Harrington Winthrop.”
I don’t. I take my time walking in, then stop in the center of the room and look around like I’m touring a museum exhibit called Wealth Without Joy.
“Nice place,” I say. “I forgot how much it looks like nobody lives here.”
My mother’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “We don’t have time for theatrics.”
“Wrong,” I say, pleasantly. “We have all the time for theatrics. I’m on a day off. I came specifically for theatrics.”
Harvey steps beside me, steady as a metronome. “Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop. Daniel. Thank you for making yourselves available on short notice.” Harvey inclines his head. “If you don’t remember me, I’m Harvey Wellington-Grant Lawson the Fourth. Mr. Winthrop’s representative.”
My father scoffs. “His representative.” Then he frowns. “You’re related to the Wellington-Grant Lawson family?”
Harvey rolls his eyes as if almost saying, unfortunately.
I laugh. “See, I told you they’d care about your family.”
“You don’t need a representative to deal with this.” Daniel Kline finally speaks, voice smooth as glass. “Mr. Winthrop, your father requested—”
“I know what he requested,” I cut in. “He requested I come running. So here I am. But he’s going to learn something today.”
My mother’s lips part. “Callaway—”
“No,” I say, still smiling. “I’m going to talk now. You can practice being quiet. It’ll build character.”
Her eyes flash—offended that I’m not playing along. Good. Let her feel it.
Daniel clears his throat. “We assume that this meeting is to address your relocation . . . and new living arrangements.”
I glance at Harvey. “Are we doing the part where we pretend they’re not embarrassing themselves?”
Harvey makes a small note on his phone. “We can skip to consequences.”
Daniel sits straighter. “Mr. Winthrop—”
I hold up a hand. “Daniel, if you say ‘Mr. Winthrop’ again, I’m going to start calling you ‘Danny boy’ in front of my mother, and I think we both know that would cause her to self-combust.”
My mother’s nostrils flare. “Callaway.”
I look at her, and grin because I think she knows that I know . . . Danny boy is one of her lovers. A very good boy that likes to be spanked. Listen, I didn’t watch the videos—yes, there are videos—but Harvey gave us the Spark Notes and this is one of her boy toys.
“I’m here to collect what you stole.”
My father’s eyes narrow. “Watch your tone.”
I grin. “Or what? You’ll ground me? Take away my allowance? Send me to my room? Please. I’d pay money to watch you try.”
Harvey steps forward and places a thin folder on the coffee table like he’s setting down a dessert menu.
Daniel’s gaze follows it automatically, predator noticing movement.
Harvey speaks, calm. “We’ll begin with property.”
My mother stiffens. “What about property?”
Harvey opens the folder and slides a document forward with two fingers. “This penthouse.”
My father laughs once, short and dismissive. “This penthouse is in my name.”
Harvey nods. “It is currently in a trust under the Winthrop Family Holdings structure, yes.”
My mother’s voice stays sweet. “So why are we discussing it?”
I step closer to the coffee table and tap the paper. “Because it was my grandfather’s.”
My father’s eyes sharpen. “Your grandfather is dead.”
“Gold star,” I say. “And before he died, he left a trust. A real one. Not the pretend ones you use to shuffle money around like you’re playing Monopoly with human lives. So in fact, you illegally placed it into the wrong trust.”
My mother’s mouth tightens. “Callaway—”
“He left it to me,” I continue. “Not you. Not Dad. Me.”
Daniel’s pen moves. I watch him, and I feel a quiet thrill—because this is the part where the professional threat realizes he’s standing on rotting beams.
Harvey adds, “The trust was updated after a series of changes in the family’s internal management. It was kept from Mr. Winthrop through . . . selective disclosure.”
“You can’t touch my house.” Dad glares at me.
Harvey slides another page forward. “The penthouse is no longer available to you.”
My father’s face reddens. “That’s impossible.”
Harvey’s eyes remain calm. “It’s filed.”
Daniel’s voice is careful now. “Filed where?”
Harvey looks at him as if Daniel has asked what water is. “Court.”
My mother’s voice turns brittle. “You can’t do that.”
I keep my smile. “Watch me.”
My father takes a step forward. “You’re not taking my home.”
I laugh, light and bright. “Dad, this has never been your home. This has been your stage. You can rent another stage.”
My mother’s gaze slices to Harvey. “This is extortion.”
Harvey doesn’t blink. “Mr. Callaway Livingston Harrington Winthrop”—He points at me—“would like to refer at it as restitution.”
I turn my attention back to my parents. “Now. Before you start screaming about disrespect, I want to be very clear about something.”
I step closer, and my voice drops—quiet enough to force them to lean into it.
“I asked you to do one little thing . . . and you didn’t,” I say, meeting my father’s eyes as he glares at me. “You were supposed to leave Vesper and Alberto alone and what did you do?” I cross my arms and tap my shoe. “You went to Vesper’s current client and tried to get her fired.”
“We—”
“Stop, Mom, I know everything,” I cut her off before they try to fill me with bullshit. “Stay away from my relationship and my family.”
My mother’s voice drips condescension. “It’s not a family. It’s a phase. A reckless—”
Harvey clears his throat, polite. “Mrs. Winthrop, your personal opinions are irrelevant to legal exposure.”
Harvey opens his tablet and scrolls once, then sets it on the table, screen facing Daniel Kline.