Chapter 17
CAROLINE
I’m hovering outside my father’s home office, trying to steel myself for whatever he wants to talk to me about, when his housekeeper quietly emerges carrying an empty whiskey bottle and a small bag of trash.
We exchange polite smiles as she gathers her cleaning supplies, and I absentmindedly reach for my necklace—Grandma’s dragonfly pendant.
As I work my fingers over the fine gold chain, my eyes fix for a moment on the last drops of amber liquid in the bottom of the bottle, remembering countless nights Fletcher came home after working late to paw at me, his breath hot and reeking of scotch.
Not wanting to reject his advances, I’d lean into it, going through the motions even if I wasn’t really in the mood.
I’d never orgasm those nights, but Fletcher didn’t seem to mind and it was over soon enough, anyway.
I’d told myself it was fine, but Miles was right.
It was anything but fine. And, until recently, I had no idea what I’d been missing.
Miles.
My heart squeezes a little, remembering how he’d insisted on going home last night.
How he’d taken the spoon from my grasp in the dark kitchen, set it gently in the sink, and held my face as he kissed me like he didn’t want to leave.
I’d clung tightly to his waist, knowing I had no right to feel disappointed that he wouldn’t stay the night.
Maybe it was the vulnerability of having tried something so new and so intimate with him.
But I couldn’t ask him to stay, no matter how much I was dreading being alone.
When I realize the cleaner left Dad’s door open a crack, I peer in. He’s at his desk, poring over some papers with a glass of whiskey in one hand.
Reminding myself to stop fiddling with my necklace, I rap tentatively on the office door.
Dad pulls the reading glasses off the end of his nose as he sits back in his chair. “Caroline. Come in.”
“Mom said you wanted to see me?” I take the seat across from him and smooth the fabric of my pleated linen skirt. The setup feels strangely formal, like a job interview.
“I spoke with Michael this week,” he says, returning his gaze to the papers on his desk.
“Okay…” I say slowly, trying to work out what my father’s financial advisor has to do with me.
“He’s done an analysis of my charitable contributions and he recommended I make some adjustments to my portfolio.”
An icy sensation spreads over the back of my neck. “What kind of adjustments?”
He spins one of the papers around to face me and slides it across the desk. “This will be the last year I’ll make my annual contribution to Found Family.”
“Wait. What?” My eyes jump between my father and the paper in front of me, which I’m not really digesting. He’s threatened this before but never gone through with it. Panic needles my stomach, knowing Dad’s substantial yearly donations are crucial to Found Family’s operational budget.
How did I screw this up?
Pretending to date Miles was supposed to avoid this—supposed to appease my dad and keep Found Family afloat. I thought I’d done enough: I’d followed his directives, been on my best behavior.
“Why?” I ask, bewildered.
“Return on investment, mainly.” He collects the remaining documents into a neat pile, then reaches for a paper clip from the caddy of office supplies near his computer.
I frown.
That’s not how charity donations work. You aren’t supposed to expect anything in return.
“Michael suggested some other philanthropic strategies that may… align better.”
“Align better with what?” My expression falls when I realize what he means. “The campaign? But this is a personal donation. These aren’t campaign funds.”
“Of course not,” Dad agrees. “Look, I’ve supported your little project since day one, sweetheart.”
My little project?
I sit back in my seat. “And so, what, you’re just done now?”
“It’s a business decision, Caroline,” he says. “Nothing more. With you no longer at the helm, it’s a natural time for this to happen.”
“And what’s Adrian supposed to do?”
“Adrian will find another donor.” He says it as if it’ll be easy. An afterthought. “He’s a charming young man. I hear he has no trouble getting what he wants. From women and men, apparently.”
My brows draw together. I’ve never known Dad to be biphobic. “Are you making a dig at Adrian’s sexuality?”
“Don’t be dramatic.” He drops his gaze to his paperwork, avoiding the topic.
Attempting to shelve my frustration is getting challenging; at this point, the shelves are full-to-bursting.
“So, let me get this straight: you’re pulling a substantial donation from a small charity that relies on it, all because it’s no longer my little project, and supporting underprivileged youth isn’t winning you any points with voters? Have I got that right?”
He shakes his head. “Caroline—”
“Wow.” I search his face, trying to make sense of this. Dad’s been trailing slightly in recent polls. This has got to be a strategic attempt to sway voters. Free up funds to make promises to the right people.
Gross.
“Don’t make this out to be something bigger than it is,” he says. “It’s simply a restructuring of my finances.”
“But you wanted to tell me in person.” He had to know this would be a big deal for me—and a major blow to Found Family. To Adrian.
“I didn’t want you to find out secondhand.” He pulls the sheet of paper back from in front of me and clips it to the front of the rest. “I’ll be letting Adrian know once Michael has things finalized.”
My heart breaks at the thought of Adrian having this bomb dropped on him.
“Don’t bother,” I say, pushing up from the chair. “I’ll tell him myself.”
I owe my best friend that much. Starting the charity had been personal for Adrian, having grown up without the kind of opportunities we’ve been able to offer thousands of kids through Found Family.
For my part, not only had I believed supporting at-risk youth was a worthy cause in and of itself, but it seemed like a perfect way to bolster my best friend’s dreams while also complementing my father’s political aspirations.
My father, who just turned his back on what I built.
I guess this is my return on investment.
“Suit yourself,” he huffs. “Though I assumed you’d be too busy.”
“Too busy with what?”
“Gallivanting around town with that boy toy of yours.”
“Boy toy? You can’t be serious.”
He swirls his glass of whiskey before taking a slow sip. “Where to next? An amusement park?”
I set my jaw, though I can’t say I’m surprised Dad’s been keeping tabs on me and Miles.
That’s when it occurs to me: with Dad’s donations withdrawn, there’s no longer anything in it for me when it comes to continuing this fake relationship with Miles. Well, except propping up my father’s election chances.
And the best sex of your life, a little inner voice reminds me before I can squash it.
But, with Miles’ job still at risk, I can’t bail on our arrangement.
I wouldn’t do that to him. Plus, it’s only another nine days until the election, and it’s not exactly a hardship spending time with him.
Especially the part where he’s helping me come out of my shell—and lose my mind with pleasure. I try to shelve the thought.
Dad types something on his computer, and my vision hazes over when he turns the screen to face me. I don’t have to read the article; seeing the photo is enough. It’s a shot of me and Miles, hand in hand, laughing as we left the arcade last night.
“He’s not at your level, sweetheart.” He swivels the monitor back to face him.
My lips part, but I find I don’t have the words to respond.
Unable to maintain eye contact with my father, my gaze flits around the room, landing on framed photos of Dad playing golf with various high-profile politicians, the enormous mahogany desk with hand-carved detailing, the expensive watch on his wrist. It suddenly feels like I’m choking on the stuffy opulence in this office.
Not at my level? Is this my level?
“You’re wrong,” I say, my voice quiet with restraint. “You don’t know anything about him.” It crosses my mind that maybe it’s me Dad doesn’t know anything about. Has he ever bothered to ask?
“I know enough.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t get a chance to answer, because Mom pops in, interrupting us. “You ready to go, darling?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, slinging one last disillusioned look at Dad. I don’t want to spend a minute longer in his presence. “I think we’re done here.”
The short drive to Mom’s tailor is quiet, the usual bustle of traffic in downtown Seattle barely registering as I try to process what Dad told me.
Is this really who my father is? Donating to charities only out of performative obligation or to sway voters into thinking he values them? I’ve never related to him less.
“Magda has all your measurements, so there shouldn’t be any alterations necessary.” Mom’s voice reaches me as though I’m underwater.
“What?”
She throws me a sidelong glance. “Your costume, darling.”
“Oh, yeah.” I try to shake off my distraction, gathering my cashmere cardigan tighter around my chest.
Halloween is in five days.
I don’t normally put a huge effort into my costume unless I’m attending a high-profile event, but when Mom had gotten wind of my idea for the local Halloween Fest, she’d pushed for having it custom-made.
She always insists on me showing up looking as polished as possible—even for smaller-scale public appearances.
I’d argued it was overkill for a family event held at a small-town farm, but she wouldn’t back down.