Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
VIOLET
“I’m just saying,” Cleo slurred, pointing at me with her half-finished cocktail, “if you ever decide to have a whoring phase, now would be the time.”
“Jesus, Cleo.” Imani choked on her drink, coughing out a laugh.
I rolled my eyes. “Lovely. Thank you for that unsolicited life advice.”
Cleo waved a hand. “You’re twenty-six, single, and terrifyingly competent. You need a little recklessness in your life.”
I snorted. “What, like you?”
“Yes, exactly like me.” She grinned. “Look at me thriving.”
Imani arched a brow. “You lost your passport in Madrid and got banned from that rooftop bar in Monaco.”
“Irrelevant.” Cleo huffed. “Those were technical setbacks.”
I just shook my head, sipping my drink. “You two are unhinged.”
“And you,” she said, pointing at me again, “are way too sensible. You should be making poor decisions in questionable locations, not babysitting your father’s expectations.”
“I make plenty of questionable decisions.”
Cleo’s brows rose. “Name one.”
I hesitated.
Imani smirked. “Exactly.”
“See?” Cleo sat back, victorious. “You’re responsible to a fault. You just spent six months working with underprivileged kids in a country where the tap water gave you food poisoning, and what was the first thing you did when you got back?”
I frowned. “Slept?”
“You moved into your father’s penthouse.”
Imani tsked. “Self-sabotage, honestly. Remember what it cost you last time?”
“My sanity?”
“Your Audi.” Cleo shook her head. “And two years of your life.”
He’d also kicked me out of the penthouse so I had to move into student housing and blow through more money.
“It’s temporary.” I took a slow sip of my drink.
It had to be. I’d spent five years burning through my mother’s inheritance to pay for the degrees he refused to fund. Tuition, rent, the master’s he called “decorative.”
But the well was running dry.
I could have moved in with Imani, sure, but that would mean paying rent.
Independence was expensive, and I had done the math. My remaining inheritance would cover exactly one year of tuition. If I spent it on rent, I couldn’t pay for school. If I paid for school, I’d be destitute by Christmas.
I needed him to fund my doctorate. And Julian Carter didn’t write checks for people who defied him.
Cleo studied me. “You’ve had at least one argument a day since you got back, haven’t you?”
I shrugged, swirling the liquid in my glass. “What can I say? We’re consistent. Though he’s been quiet lately. No screaming matches in at least forty-eight hours.”
“That’s because she played the part,” Imani said, dropping a lime wedge into her drink. “I saw the photos from the Foundation Gala. You were gazing up at him with enough sickly sweet, ‘Daddy knows best’ devotion to make me throw up.”
I grimaced. “I looked medicated.”
Cleo pursed her lips, eying me. “You did look like a happy family.”
“That’s the whole point.” I shrugged. “He gets his photo op. I get my money.”
Imani nodded, signaling for another round. “As long as you play nice in his sandbox, Julian gives you what you need.”
Need, never want. “Christ,” Cleo sighed. “You need an intervention.”
I just had to bide my time. Three more years, and I’d be out.
Once my DPsych was done, I’d have the qualifications to start practicing, and everything would fall into place.
A career, a salary that didn’t come with strings attached, and enough distance that Julian Carter would become what he was always supposed to be: an occasional, obligatory presence at Christmas and maybe the odd polite nod at charity events.
That was the endgame.
I wasn’t na?ve. Living in his penthouse was a necessary evil, nothing more.
I could take out loans once my inheritance money ran out and stretch myself thin, but what was the point?
His money existed whether I used it or not, and if a few years of tolerating him meant securing my future faster, I wasn’t above playing the long game.
“Think of it as him funding his own obsolescence,” I said. “Why struggle with loans when I can let him pay for my escape?”
Cleo groaned. “I hate that you make this sound logical.”
Imani smirked. “She has a gift.”
“No, she has a problem. A deep, fundamental aversion to fun.”
“I have fun.”
Their brows rose in unison.
“Alright. Say I believe you,” Cleo said.
Imani swirled her drink. “Which is generous.”
Cleo nodded. “Very. But let’s say I do. Describe, in vivid, edge-of-your-seat detail, the last time you did something purely for yourself. No strategy. No career advancement. No benefit beyond enjoying the moment.”
I opened my mouth, then frowned.
“Go on, then.” Cleo raised a brow. “Thrill us.”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed against the table. Julian’s name flashed across it. I hadn’t even realized he was back from Zandvoort yet.
Imani whistled low. “Daddy Dearest calling personally? Must be serious.”
I ignored her, swiping to answer. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” he asked with absolutely no emotion in his voice.
I scowled. “Out.”
“Address.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Text me the address. My driver will pick you up.” His voice was flat, but the irritation bled through.
“Why?”
“We have Aedris business to deal with. ”
I stilled, fingers tightening around my glass. One day, I’d stop being surprised by my father. But tonight wasn’t it.
I’d spent the last five years steering clear of Aedris. I’d already served my two-and-a-half-year sentence of paddock grunt work while he held my tuition hostage, waiting for me to agree to a business bachelors.
I wanted nothing to do with my father’s team.
My instinct was to say pass. To tell him to find another prop for his show. But the phantom weight of the tuition bill in my future stopped me.
If I said no, the check would disappear. I knew it as clearly as I knew my own name.
I took a breath, tasting the lime and bitterness of my drink.
Play the game.
“I don’t have time for this. Send the address, or forget the doctorate.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, then set it down with the kind of forced calm that usually preceded violence.
Cleo winced. “That sounded ominous.”
Imani took a sip of her drink. “What’s the verdict? Financial ruin if you don’t comply?”
“Basically.”
Cleo exhaled. “God, I hate him.”
“Get in line.”
I set my drink down and picked up my phone again, jaw tight.
Imani’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? Texting him the address.”
Cleo tutted. “Vi, no. Don’t give in.”
Imani shook her head. “If you keep caving every time he threatens you, he’ll just keep upping the ante.”
“What am I supposed to do? Call his bluff? We both know he doesn’t bluff.”
“Maybe he is this time,” Cleo said, her tone almost desperate. “He needs you for this Aedris thing, right? You have leverage.”
I hesitated.
It sounded nice, but leverage only worked if you were willing to burn the deal down. I wasn’t holding the matches, he was. He held the pen, the checkbook, and the future I’d spent five years clawing my way toward.
If I fought him on this, I wouldn’t just lose an argument. I would lose my future career because there was no way I could complete three years of a psychology doctorate while working full time to support myself.
Imani leaned in, eyes softening. “Vi, if you let him keep doing this, when does it stop?”
It didn’t. Not until I had the qualifications to make him irrelevant.
I could fight him now, sure. But I wouldn’t win. I’d just be broke, proud, and doctorate-less.
Play along. Get the money. Get the doctorate. Get out.
I swallowed, then, with a resigned sigh, typed out my location and hit send.
Imani groaned, leaning back in her chair. “Unbelievable.”
Cleo shook her head. “You need to grow a spine.”
“I have a spine.” I grabbed my jacket. “I also have rent-free housing and a degree to finish.”
They gave me matching unimpressed looks.
I sighed. “Look, I appreciate the feminist intervention, but I’ll pick a fight I can actually win, alright?”
Neither of them looked convinced.
Imani raised her glass in mock toast. “RIP to your freedom, babe.”
“Took you long enough.”
I barely managed to step onto the pavement before my father threw the accusation at me, already turning toward the house.
“Right. I was controlling traffic the entire way here.”
He didn’t bother responding, just walked up the path to the house, his pace clipped and angry. I followed, smoothing the front of my jacket and checking my reflection in a darkened window. If I was going to sell my soul for tuition, I needed to look the part.
“Whose place is this?” I asked, my steps quickening to match his.
“You’ll see.”
I huffed out a breath, glancing around the quiet, upscale neighbourhood. Nothing about the sleek townhouse screamed ‘urgent Aedris business.’ No journalists lurking outside, no desperate PR stunt.
I sighed. “You’ve dragged me across the city with no explanation. I need context, Dad.”
He stopped at the door, his hand hovering over the brass knocker. He turned to me, his eyes cold and assessing, raking over my appearance like he was checking for a smudge on a trophy.
“Fix your face,” he said, his voice a sharp command that left no room for argument. “We’re here to solve a problem. Do try to look capable.”
The audacity nearly choked me. I wanted to laugh in his face. I wanted to scream that the only reason I was standing here was because he held my future hostage, not because I needed his validation.
My nails dug crescents into my palms and, for a second, I let the pain ground me while I held back every biting retort locked behind my teeth.
Don’t burn the bank, Violet. Just get the money.
I clamped my jaw shut and forced my features into a mask of blank obedience. The corners of my lips curled up into the plastic smile I’d perfected at a dozen charity galas.
“Loud and clear.”
He knocked.
The door swung open, and I regretted caving so easily.
Griffin Michaels stood in the doorway, barefoot, exhausted, and—
Holding a baby.
My brain short-circuited.