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I count the seconds in my head.
One… two… three…
My phone begins to ring again.
Panic grips my heart. I don’t even know how many damn rings I have left.
“Chase, please,” I beg after the next ring.
I don’t know if it’s my tone or my pleading eyes that gets through to him, but Chase’s face softens a little with sympathy.
Glancing away, he huffs out, “Fine, but take it in the office. I don’t want you leaving the building alone.”
Nodding my head, I grip my phone and make a dash for the back office. I probably look ridiculous the way I’m rushing, but it’s the least of my worries right now.
My phone rings twice more before I make through the office door.
Slamming the door behind me, I hit the big green accept button on my screen and pant out, “Hello?”
There’s a long pause before my father’s irritated voice comes over the line. “Am I interrupting you, Aubrey? Is there something more important you need to do than talk to me?”
Shit. Here we go, starting the guilt trip already.
Leaning my head back against the door, I close my eyes and try not to sigh. “No.”
“Are you sure? I could call back at a more convenient time...”
“I’m sure,” I answer immediately, my head popping up and my eyes going wide.
I know that’s not a sincere offer.
It’s a threat.
“Very well, then,” he says tersely. “I know you’re busy, too busy for your father, so I’ll get straight to it. I just got off the phone with Warren Yates.”
There’s another pause, and I don’t say anything because I keep expecting him to go on while I hold my breath.
Finally, he asks coldly, “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Oh god, what does he know?
I didn’t expect him to get wind of everything so quick. I don’t think it’s been an hour since Tristan was here.
Did Tristan go crying to his daddy right away?
Or perhaps my father doesn’t know what happened today. Maybe he only knows about the split?
It’s impossible to know. My father is being vague on purpose, and the question is completely loaded.
“I broke up with Tristan,” I admit and try to mentally brace myself for his reaction.
I’ve been dreading telling him this, which is precisely why I haven’t called him yet. There’s no way he’s going to be happy about this.
“You broke up with Tristan?” my father repeats as if he can’t believe it.
“Yes, I caught him—”
Talking over me and not giving me a chance to explain the situation, my father’s voice rises in pitch as he asks incredulously, “You broke up with the son of my biggest campaign contributor? The son of my biggest backer and supporter? The son of the man who has the power to make me or destroy me? The son of the man that could put me in the White House?”
