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I stared at the man as if he had just grown horns. He could have told me aliens came to eat dinner with him last night, and I would have been less stunned. I had never heard him say anything good about his parents, and I'd certainly never heard him say anything that sounded remotely as if he had an actual human heart beating in his chest.
He quickly obliterated the odd moment. "Put those pictures away. We have something important to discuss." He placed his pen down and sat back, his face contorting in pain as he tried to get comfortable in the chair.
I placed the photos back in the box. "Can I get you something?" I asked, as he held his breath to let a wave of pain pass.
"No," he said tersely. His skin whitened more, and he kept his eyes shut for a few seconds. He opened them and stared at me across the table. "Morris Grant called to see how I was doing."
"I see." Growing up I never made direct eye contact with him, especially when he was mad, which from the stretched thin mouth and flicker of rage in his eyes, he was that and more. Now that I was an adult, and an adult who had proved himself by raking in a fortune of my own, I had no problem locking my angry gaze with his. "I'm starting my own company."
"Not sure if your unsavory reputation is going to help you with that. I knew you had a weak link inside you." He motioned with a shaky hand toward the shoe box. "Unfortunately, I couldn't stop the transfer of genes from my parents to you. You've got some of that wild streak in you. I was able to stop and control it when you lived under my roof but now—"
"Now I'm an adult and every fucking decision I make is my own. I don't need a fatherly lecture or an ounce of your anger or disappointment or whatever other negative feelings you can summon for your only son."
Dad rested his head against the tall back of the chair. It seemed even sitting up for extended periods took too much energy. "When I wrote the amendment into my will, insisting you had to make ten million dollars on your own before getting a penny of your inheritance, I did it, not out of cruelty, but to make sure you didn't take life for granted. Too many wealthy heirs lead meaningless, spoiled lives, spending all the family fortune without ever realizing the blood and sweat that went into earning it."
I sat forward. "First of all, I was never a spoiled, wealthy heir. I wasn't born with the silver spoon in my mouth. You held it in front of my mouth, but I never got to taste it."
"Right. I saw to that. And that life of austerity made you strive for success. But now it seems you've started taking it all for granted. Fast, expensive cars, loose women and booze. Those are all the hallmarks of a spoiled, wealthy brat."
"There is not one dollar of your money in my bank account, so I think we can change that title to successful, young man finally learning what it's like to live a good life. And what I do with that life is none of your business." I got up to leave. "It's been a rousing chat as always, sir."
"The lawyer is coming by later today," he said before I could leave the table.
I stopped.
"I'm changing the will again. You reached and far surpassed your first ten million, and that would have released the trust to you upon my death. But I'm adding a new stipulation. You don't need Grant, that old prune. It's about time you started your own company. And when your company is earning seven figures in a year, you'll get your trust."
I shrugged. "Keep moving the goal post as often as you like. It's still my life, and I'll do what the fuck I want with it." I headed out. "Maybe we can just bury you with your fucking fortune because I don't want it."
I walked out, not wanting or needing to wait for his response. In truth, our quick chat had gone about the same as our meetings always had since I'd grown up and ventured out on my own. Dad was still trying to control me, and the sense that his grip on me had come all but unglued made him lash out in every way possible. And for him, that always meant money, namely my inheritance. But he had been using his fortune as leverage to get what he wanted from me for a long time. I was bored of playing that game. The trust fund was starting to feel like a pact with the devil, and it just wasn't worth the hassle.
I reached the staircase but rather than head down, I crossed the landing, walking past the creepy paintings to the east wing of the house. My bedroom was at the end of a long hallway, far away from Dad's room. I was always glad to have a long stretch of space between our bedrooms.
It had been several years since I walked into the room. I opened the door. It smelled stale and musty, like a room that hadn't been opened for years. Which I was sure it hadn't. There were at least half a dozen rooms in the sprawling mansion that were never used.
