But mumbling, hushed voices stop me before I get to the kitchen, in the direction of my parents’ bedroom.
“I don’t think this will help him, Xavier.” My mother’s tone comes out rushed and concerned. “If anything, it’ll make it worse.”
“He needs to be comfortable in the public eye again.” He’s trying to speak calmly, but the strain in his voice gives him away. “We can’t hide him forever, Mya. People have already been talking.”
I lean beside the open doorframe. There is no doubt they’re talking about me.
“Can’t you see he’s still hurting? Why throw him back into it when he hasn’t gotten his spark back?”
“We’ve given him ample time to grieve, time he should have spent searching for Sylvie’s murderer,” Dad grumbles. He doesn’t do a good job of hiding his disappointment, though he never usually does. “Stepping back was never the right move. We’ll have to push him back into the man he was before.”
“And you think this job will do that?” Mom asks incredulously. “I don’t see the correlation, Xavier.”
“It’s a start. We can’t throw him too far into the deep end.”
I swallow the bile rising in my throat. They talk about me as if I’m borderline hopeless, and this is their last attempt at fixing me into the man I used to be. Only the man I was before witnessing my fiancée’s assassination can never be restored. When they attended Sylvie’s funeral, they also went to his, and his grave was next to hers; they just couldn’t see it.
The man I was before would have slit the throat of the bastard who took my wife from me. That was who everyone was expecting, and who everyone still wants. He was my father’s successor, the future leader of the Crowncrest, the one destined to lead.
But now they only have me. I’ll have to teach them to loveme.
I lean forward to get in better earshot of their private conversation, but then it hits me. Throughout my twenty-one years of living, I have never overheard a conversation between my parents that I wasn’t supposed to. With all the enemies they have, Xavier and Mya Beaumont don’t let people eavesdrop on them—not even their children.
They know I’m listening, and they want me to.
I step into the doorway, hands behind my back and chest up, right before my parents. They’re in the bedroom’s center, eyes on me before I even make an entrance.
Mom presses her hand against her chest, eyes battling between affection and apprehension. She walks up to me on her long, toned legs and wraps me into a bear hug, making my face nuzzle into her afro.
“Good afternoon,” she whispers.
My movements are rigid as I pat her on the back. “Afternoon.”
She steps back, and my dad comes beside her. The silence is thick between us, but I don’t fill in the gap.
“Kingsley,” Dad says, his gaze dark as he looks at me. “We have a job for you.”
“Is a parent angry their kid got his hand stuck in the mini golf hole again?” I ask dryly, since the only thing I’ve been good for lately is making cameo appearances to frustrated guests, soothing them with discounts and free items so they’ll stop whining.
“No, son. We have a real job for you. I feel it’s time for you to get back into the business, don’t you think?”
If it means I don’t have to keep doing the busy-work jobs we pay others to do, I’m down. Maybe returning to how things used to be might bring back a fraction of the intense, yet unburdened manner in which I used to live.
“Well, what is it?”
The corner of my dad’s lip tugs in a sly grin. I look to Mom, but her neutral expression has been indecipherable for as long as I can remember. What the hell is this job?
Dad’s shoulder brushes against mine as they leave the room. He speaks with his back to me. “We will explain at tonight’s dinner. Dress nicely, King.”
My stomach knots. “Businessdinner?”
Mom turns over her shoulder, her brows knit together. “Yes. Would you rather a business breakfast? Lunch?”
Her tone is condescending, but it’s more because she’s confused than anything else, even though she knows I’ve always disliked sitting at tables with old heads talking endlessly about numbers and figures. Dinners with families like the Moonclafs and Crenshaws, where we discussed the less legal aspects of our lives, were at least interesting. The ones with investors? Not so much.
And for other reasons, the dinners have been much shittier than usual lately.
I shake my head.
