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It’s funny how this house is exactly the same as it was when I was growing up, but it hardly feels like home. It’s further proof that it’s not the place that’s home, but the people.
The hardwood floors creak beneath my feet as I head down the hall to my father’s office. It’s silent inside and I push the door open.
“Dad?” It’s empty, the room dark.
But I thought …
I start to leave the room, but something draws me forward, to his desk. Papers are scattered there like he left in a hurry.
I flick his desk light on and my eyes scan the papers.
Confusion rattles my brain, but as understanding sinks in my heart begins to race at the reality of what faces me.
Nova’s name flashes before my eyes, intermingled with Owen’s and his father’s. The papers are laden with dates and information about her. Fuck, I even see a report card.
But that’s not what makes my blood run cold.
I pick up the piece of paper, my hand shaking.
Adoption papers.
“What are you doing in here?” His voice booms.
My head whips up, the papers clutched in my fist.
“What did you do?” I glare at him.
He steps into his office, dressed in a suit and his hair slicked back. The man always looks impeccable, like nothing can touch him.
“You’re my son. After I spoke with Harry and he informed me of his son’s past with your … escort, I thought it was best to dig into her past myself, see what I was dealing with if my son’s associating with someone like her.”
“Someone like her?” I scoff. “You mean someone who’s beautiful, and smart, and artistic, and fucking amazing? I’m lucky she wants someone like me.”
He shakes his head. “She’s not on your level, son.”
I spread my arms wide. “Who is, Dad? Tell me, who the fuck do you think is a match for me? You think you’re so much better than everyone else, and that by extension I am too, but you’re wrong. You’re the worst kind of person there is.”
He shakes his head, still calm. “Everything I do, I do because I love you.”
“Love,” I repeat with a laugh. “You think you love me. You don’t know the first fucking thing about love!”
“Stop using that kind of language in my house, and do not raise your voice to me. You are a child.” He points an accusing fin
ger at me.
“I stopped being a child the minute Mom died,” I tell him, anger shining in my eyes. “You weren’t here and I had to raise myself and last time I checked, I am twenty-fucking-three, which is hardly a child.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“You mean work? You worked all the fucking time and you made my life miserable. And Mom? She died and you weren’t fucking there! Where were you? Probably working or fucking some whore, because let’s face it, you never really loved Mom, did you? Fuck!” I cry out when he grabs me by the neck and shoves my face into the wall. I’m jolted, not having expected that at all. He’s never laid a hand on me, not once. He preferred to use words, not fists, but it seems something I’ve said has sent him over the edge.
“Do not—” he shakes me “—ever, accuse me of cheating on your mother. I would never do that. If there’s one good thing I had in this world, it’s her.” He squeezes my neck slightly, a warning, and lets go.
Air whooshes back into my lungs and I grab my neck. It’s going to be bruised, that’s for sure.
Tears shine in his eyes, something I’ve certainly never seen.
“Get out of my house, Jacen.”
