Chapter 8
Skyler
The Four Stool café sits nestled between financial institutions. It may have a name that implies ‘bar’ but it’s anything but. Inside is a sea of suits.
I check my watch. I’m two minutes early, which means I’m already five minutes late by Thompson standards.
Through the window, I spot my father at our usual corner table, back straight as a ruler, documents spread before him.
My stomach tightens into the familiar knot it’s formed since childhood whenever I’m summoned to his presence.
I straighten my tie—a reflexive gesture—before entering.
Inside, the muted conversations of Chicago’s financial elite create a soft backdrop to the clink of heavy silverware. A hostess materializes, recognizing me with a practiced smile.
“Mr. Thompson is already seated,” she says, though I haven’t spoken a word. Robert Thompson has never been late for anything in his life.
I follow her across Italian marble floors, past tables of men in suits. Father doesn’t look up as I approach, his attention fixed on project financial spreadsheets.
“You’re late,” he says without glancing at his watch. He doesn’t need to.
“Traffic,” I lie, settling into the chair across from him. We both know I left my office with plenty of time to spare but lingered in my car, delaying this meeting by precious seconds.
A waiter appears instantly, as if Father summoned him with invisible signals. “Your usual, Mr. Thompson?”
I nod, grateful to skip the performance of studying a menu I’ve memorized. Father orders a prime rib, done rare. I request the sea bass as usual.
“Henderson called this morning,” Father begins once the waiter retreats. “He’s impressed with the revisions to the atrium design.”
“Good,” I say, reaching for my water glass to occupy my hands. “The structural reinforcements actually improved the aesthetics while maintaining budget parameters.”
“Smart compromise. Though I still believe the cantilever would have made a more significant statement.”
“The client preferred function over statement,” I reply, the mild disagreement already making my palms sweat.
“Clients don’t always know what will serve them best in the long term.” Father shuffles his documents into a precise stack. “That’s why they hire experts.”
The familiar argument settles between us.
Our pre-course salads arrive. Father cuts his romaine into small bites, knife blade flashing under the recessed lighting.
“I spoke with your mother this morning,” he says after several methodical chews. “She’s concerned about the wedding preparations.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. Here it comes, the real purpose of this lunch.
“Everything’s on track,” I say carefully. “We’ve tentatively confirmed the venue and the catering.”
“That’s not her concern.” Father’s eyes meet mine for the first time. “She’s worried about Harley’s adjustment to our family’s standards.”
The words land like perfectly aimed darts.
“Harley’s doing fine,” I counter. “It’s an adjustment period for everyone.”
“Of course.” Father spears another piece of lettuce. “Moving into our home must be quite overwhelming for someone of her background.”
“Harley is accomplished in her own right,” I say, attempting a defense. “Her work makes real differences in children’s lives. Just last month, she reunited a mother in recovery with her kids after fighting a system stacked against her.”
Father’s expression remains neutral, but his eyes cool several degrees.
“Admirable work, certainly. Though I wonder if such intensive career demands will align with the expectations of a Thompson spouse. Our family foundation could certainly use her expertise in a more appropriate capacity. Leave the charity to the bleeding hearts.”
I should correct him. I should explain that Harley’s career is her calling, not a stepping-stone to becoming a Thompson accessory. The words form in my throat but dissolve.
“She’s passionate about her cases,” is all I manage.
Our entrées arrive, saving me from further inadequate defenses. Father cuts into his prime rib, the pink center yielding exactly to his specifications. Meanwhile, I pick at my sea bass, my appetite curdling in the heat of his silence.
“Amanda always understood the importance of family connections,” Father remarks casually, as if noting a shift in the wind. “Her work brings her in contact with the right circles—strategic relationships that benefit everyone involved.”
The mention of my ex-fiancée makes my chest tighten, a sharp, cold pressure. “Amanda and I wanted different things, Father. Unlike Harley and me.”
I wait for the explosion, for him to argue or scoff.
Instead, he doesn’t even glance up from his plate. He simply lifts a brow—a slow, clinical movement that makes my defense feel like a child’s tantrum. “Did you?”
That’s it. No debate, no acknowledgment of the woman I’ve chosen. He just pivots back to his meal, his indifference more devastating than a shout. He doesn’t need to argue that I’m wrong; he just treats my conviction like a temporary delusion.
As he signals for the check, I realize I’ve eaten almost nothing. The sea bass sits mostly untouched, a testament to an appetite destroyed by the realization that I am shouting into a void.
“I’ll have the Henderson revisions on your desk by tomorrow,” I say, retreating to the safety of work talk—the only language he actually respects.
Father nods, mission accomplished. He’s planted his seeds of doubt, reminded me of Amanda’s continued presence in our social circle, and undermined our wedding plans, all without raising his voice or making a single direct demand.
And I let him. Again.
The Henderson blueprints blur before my eyes. I force myself to focus on the structural supports—things I can control. When my phone vibrates against my desk, Mother’s name lighting up the screen, my stomach drops. The call is always about the same thing lately. Her wedding.
I grab my phone and stand in one fluid motion, moving toward the conference room I know is empty this afternoon. The glass door slides shut behind me with a soft click. I draw a deep breath before answering.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Skyler, darling.” Her voice fills the empty room. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
“Just reviewing some blueprints,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I’ve made some progress with the wedding plans that I simply must share.”
“Mother, Harley and I have a planning session this weekend. We were going to—”
“I’ve adjusted the color palette,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “Silver and navy. Much more appropriate for a Thompson wedding than that rustic theme Harley had suggested.”
My jaw tightens. Harley spent weeks deciding on burgundy and gold.
“Harley has her heart set on burgundy and gold,” I say.
“Burgundy is so heavy, darling. Almost funereal, like I won’t know if I should show up in a limo or a hearse.
” Mother’s dismissal is wrapped in concern, her specialty.
“Silver and navy are classic Thompson. Your cousin Abigail used it for her wedding at the club three years ago, and it photographed beautifully.”
“Mother, enough.” I did it. I pushed back.
But then she tilts her head, that disappointed shadow crossing her face, and the strength drains out of me as quickly as it came.
I can’t do round two. “Look, I hear you. But Harley has specific ideas for the centerpieces. Discuss it with her. I’m not changing anything without her input. ”
“Wonderful!” Mother’s voice brightens. “I’m sure she’ll agree. I’ve also spoken with Belvedere Florists about the centerpieces. Calla lilies and white roses with silver accents. So much more sophisticated than those silly wildflower arrangements Harley had mentioned.”
“As I said, speak to Harley about it first.”
“It makes more sense for you to handle that, darling. Woman to woman, these conversations can become unnecessarily emotional. You can present it as a joint decision.”
“Mother, we agreed to plan this together—” I begin, summoning a feeble protest.
“I’ve also updated the guest list,” she interrupts smoothly. “I’ve added twenty more of your father’s business associates. It would be a grave oversight to exclude them.”
Twenty more strangers in expensive suits, judging Harley.
“We’re trying to keep it small,” I say, my voice hollow.
“Skyler.” Mother’s tone shifts. “A Thompson wedding isn’t just a personal celebration; it’s a social obligation. These connections are crucial to your father’s business and to your future. Surely Harley understands that.”
I close my eyes, picturing Harley’s face.
“Fine,” I concede, defeat familiar as an old sweater. “Add them to the list.”
“Perfect. I’ll have my assistant send over the updated spreadsheet.” The triumph in her voice is expertly concealed, but I hear it anyway. “Now, about the venue—”
“It’s tentatively booked,” I cut in, attempting to salvage some small piece of autonomy.
“The country club has penciled us in for the third Saturday in October,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “That gives us exactly twelve weeks for preparations. A bit rushed, but with my connections, we’ll manage.”
“Mother—”
“I must run, darling. Meeting with the garden club in twenty minutes. We’ll speak soon about the menu options. I’m thinking a choice of filet mignon or sea bass. Nothing too adventurous.”
The call ends and I stare at the phone, the screen fading to black like my integrity.
I return to my desk, straightening papers that don’t need straightening. I stare at the Henderson blueprints, seeing only burgundy and gold dissolving into Thompson silver and navy.