“My name is Mr. Tate to you, Miss Hunter.” Ice clanks against glass in his background. “And technically, you are a client…”
“I’ll call you tomorrow when you’re in a better mood,” I say. “Can you promise to answer?”
“No.”
“Jameson—”
“Best of luck with your acting career, college career, whatever fucking lie you’ll tell me next career,” he says. “I do previously recall telling you I don’t talk on the phone unless it’s about work.”
“That wasbeforeme.”
“Well, now it’safteryou, too.” He ends the call without another word.
UNDUE INFLUENCE (N.):
OCCURS WHEN ONE PERSON USES THEIR POWER, AUTHORITY, OR A POSITION OF TRUST TO OVERPOWER ANOTHER'S FREE WILL.
SCARLETT
The following morning
Iride the elevator to the fourth floor at Deutsche Bank Center, ready to meet my father at Per Se.
I’m wearing my birthday albatross around my neck, with the sapphire charm from Jameson hanging slightly higher above it.
Breathing slowly, I remind myself of the mantra I’ve used to avoid my father’s wrath for years.
Don’t say too much, and don’t say too little…
The doors glide open, revealing a completely empty space full of white-clothed tables that have undoubtedly been blocked from reservations today.
No one else will be allowed to enter the restaurant until he’s done dining with me, and only two staff members are allowed to be within his eyesight at any given time.
It’s the typical accommodation for whatever restaurant my father picks for any meal.
Spotting him at the corner table, I feign a smile and walk toward him.
“Good morning, Dad,” I say, taking a seat. “How are you today?”
“Better than yesterday.” He snaps his fingers and a waiter appears.
“Yes, sir?” He doesn’t make eye contact.
“We’ll have the chef’s three-course brunch special, please,” he says. “And your best red wine, since my daughter is finally allowed to drink.”
“Excellent choices, sir.” He vanishes, and my father picks up his napkin.
“Your mother couldn’t make it into town for breakfast with us,” he says. “Her spa appointment was delayed.”
“I understand.” I bite my tongue. “My mother uses that excuse whenever she doesn’t want to do something. It’s either that or a very dramatic, ‘Oh noooo. I feel a migraine coming on.’”
I’m not sure if my father has ever noticed the pattern, or if he just doesn’t care.
“Tell me about this big project you’ve been working on,” he says. “I’m beyond intrigued.”
“It’s fairly simple.” I lean back in my seat. “But I can only give vague details right now.”
“That’s fine. Go on.”
