31
Amanda had led Brandon straight into an ambush, but she hadn't completely abandoned him. More than once, she'd reached over to squeeze his hand under the table. He couldn't tell how obvious his nerves were, but he liked to think he was doing a solid job of projecting effortless confidence.
He'd already fielded a few of Mr. Patterson's questions without raising any red flags. The man was petty to the bone, that much was crystal clear. Amanda might play-act the spoiled, domineering rich girl, but her father was the genuine article.
"I don't believe Amanda mentioned where you went to school, Brandon."
Brandon glanced at the girl beside him. She gave him a nod. She's really getting off on watching me squirm, isn't she?
"I didn't go to college, sir."
"Oh, well..." The man seemed poised to say more, then thought better of it. "Taking over the family business, then? Perhaps I've crossed paths with your father at the club without realizing it."
"I doubt that, sir."
Patterson frowned, taking another sip from his wine glass. "I'm quite certain Amanda said she met you there."
Amanda smothered a giggle behind her napkin. Mr. Patterson cut his eyes toward her, but let it slide. He raised his empty glass with a curt, dismissive flick of his wrist, and the same maid who'd announced dinner hurried over to refill it.
Ridiculous, Brandon thought. The bottle was sitting right in front of him. God forbid he pours his own damn wine.
The maid circled around, hovering to offer Brandon a refill, but he gave a polite shake of his head. She set the bottle back on the table.
"Well then, son. I must admit I'm intrigued.
Forgive me, but I can't help wondering how the admissions committee approved you at Sterling Grove.
It's practically an old-money institution, and by your own admission, your father isn't a member.
You must have impressed them somehow." The older man set his silverware down beside his plate and leaned forward.
"You wouldn't happen to be that boy who made a fortune investing in some internet venture, would you?
Joe was rambling about it a few weeks back, but I didn't pay much attention. "
Amanda let out a quiet laugh. Under the table, her hand slid over Brandon's thigh, stroking him in silent support.
The urge to drop the bomb was almost overwhelming. Dancing around the truth was a game with an expiration date, and they were sprinting toward the finish line.
"I wish, sir. Afraid I wasn't that lucky."
"Well, I can't say I'm not relieved. Pardon my bluntness, but you can't simply pad a bank account with new money and expect it to buy your way into Sterling Grove. That's what young upstarts like that fail to grasp. It takes far more than cash to truly arrive, you see?"
Brandon said nothing. He finished eating and laid his silverware down. Amanda's father was visibly chafing at the lack of straight answers; he was going to keep poking and prodding until he got one he despised.
Exchanging glances with Amanda again, Brandon searched her eyes to confirm if this was what she wanted.
Oh yeah. This is exactly what she wants.
His mind flashed back to their first encounter at the club, the way she'd spoken to her father.
Back then, he'd thought she was just being unnecessarily cruel to her old man.
But now, sitting across from Mr. My-Bloodline-Is-Noble-and-Pure, he didn't blame her in the slightest.
"So your father simply dislikes clubs, then. Left it to you to bring the family name into Sterling."
"Sir, no one in my family would ever set foot in that place. Even if they wanted to."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm saying I don't have money like you folks do, sir. I work at the club. That's how Amanda met me."
"Well... I see. My apologies—if I assumed you were a fellow member, it was only because that was the most logical conclusion.
" His tone didn't carry a shred of genuine remorse, dripping with pure accusation instead.
"Still, you must hold a respectable position there.
I know one of Amanda's acquaintances works at the club, though she's only a manager.
She really should have applied herself in college; she could have secured a far better role in administration. "
Brandon didn't say a word. They had just hit the breaking point of this little guessing game. Amanda's expression had shifted from flippant amusement to razor-sharp focus; the look of a high-roller watching her horse go neck-and-neck down the final stretch seconds before the finish line.
Well, if that was what she wanted from him, Brandon was going to win that race, even if he had to whip the other jockey off his horse.
"I think you forgot that I didn't go to college, sir. No... I believe Amanda was simply impressed by how well I serve her drinks."
Amanda had to swallow a laugh that nearly choked her.
"Serve drinks?"
"Yes, sir. That's my job. I started a few weeks ago, and frankly, Laura is way above my pay grade. Actually, I doubt there's anyone on staff below me."
The reality of Brandon's words seemed to take an eternity to register in the old man's brain.
The very concept of sitting across the dinner table from a club "employee" was fundamentally incomprehensible to him.
Patterson's gaze flicked back and forth between Brandon and Amanda, utterly short-circuited.
He's definitely thinking my place is right alongside that woman, the housemaid.
Mr. Patterson's face began to flush a deep, angry crimson, though he fought to keep a veneer of civility intact. Brandon braced for an outburst, expecting the man to snap. Instead, the patriarch seemed to decide Brandon wasn't even worth addressing directly.
"Unbelievable." His voice was dangerously low, his glare locking onto Amanda. "Are you serious?"
"What's wrong, Dad? Food not sitting well?"
"Son. I don't know what she offered you to put on this little stunt, this pathetic charade, but that's quite enough."
Brandon parted his lips to reply, but Amanda cut him off.
"He's serious, Dad. In fact, he didn't even know we were coming here until I picked him up from his place."
"Picked him up from his place?" He shoved his plate away, snatched the napkin from his lap, and tossed it onto the table with thinly veiled disgust. "Amanda! What in God's name were you thinking? This is just to get a rise out of me, isn't it? These childish antics of yours cross the line."
"What's the matter, Dad? Don't think he's worthy of your precious little girl?"
"Son, I apologize for this spectacle. This is clearly the product of whatever twisted sense of humor my daughter harbors. I'll have the driver take you home so we can put an end to this nonsense."
"No." It was strange, but whatever anxiety had been knotting Brandon's gut just moments before had completely vanished. His voice rang out steady, firm, and uncompromising.
"No? What are you talking about? Don't tell me you actually buy into this farce? As a matter of principle, one would expect someone from our family, someone like her—"
"Can't date someone like me? Just because I'm not rich?"
"Well, I wouldn't put it in those exact terms, son. Mind you, I haven't been anything less than civil throughout our conversation."
"Right up until you found out what I do at the club."
"And that is something I cannot ignore. Do you honestly expect me to condone this sort of association with my only daughter?"
"What association, sir?"
"Oh, please! Don't play dumb. You think I wouldn't see right through this... twisted... gold-digging scheme or whatever it is? Be man enough to admit it, at least. Good grief, there are far more honest ways to get ahead in life, boy."
He honestly thinks... God. What world does he live in?
"I don't give a damn about your daughter's money."
"Pfft..."
That smug scoff stung worse than any direct accusation. Brandon was used to dealing with entitled rich assholes at the club. But that raw, effortless contempt—the dismissive sound identical to the ones his own father used to brush him off with as a kid—hit a nerve deep inside him.
It was time to win that damn race.
"No. I definitely don't have your money, Mr. Patterson.
And I sure as hell don't have a giant fucking boulder in my living room to scare my guests into submission.
Seriously? A giant rock? I don't need to hide behind a bunch of power-tripping bullshit like you do.
Maybe you'd feel like more of a man if you didn't need all this posturing.
Who knows, maybe people would actually respect you if you dared to do something basic, like remember someone's name.
" Brandon caught his breath, pointing toward the woman in the apron standing at the far end of the room.
Her eyes bugged out the second she was dragged into the crossfire.
"Why not start by learning the names of the people who keep your basic life running?
Can you even wipe your own ass without help?
Do you need a bib tied around your neck and someone to wipe your mouth, too? "
"Why... you little..." The older man seemed to snap back to life. But Brandon's voice surged over him, cutting off any attempt to retaliate.
"So yeah. I'm just an employee at the club. A job that wouldn't even need to exist if useless pricks like you knew how to do the bare minimum to survive without relying on someone making shit pay to do it for you."
Brandon pointed down at the plate in front of him. Then, he shoved his chair back and left the table.
Amanda's father remained speechless, paralyzed as if he'd witnessed something supernatural: someone confronting him to his face. Amanda, on the other hand, tracked Brandon with her eyes. Her expression was sheer delight, entirely enthralled.