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My dad fills the quiet with small talk about why he bought this property, and how the land rights were tricky, something about reverting to the original owner whom he sued on breach of contract between his father and the now deceased patriarch of the family he fully took advantage of.
What a proud legacy.
“I’m sorry, I’m confused. Why are you here?” Paul has finally hit the bullshit limit. I’ve seen it plenty of times. I’ve hit it myself. The only reason I’m hanging around is they truly do have an incredible mimosa. I lean back and sip at my drink, waiting for this all to play out. Paul will walk away shocked. I won’t. I never do.
“Ah, your dad, Mickey Flannery. He’s . . . sixty-percent owner of Molten Unlimited?” My dad knows this percentage to the decimal. He’s toying with Paul.
“I don’t know. I guess? Maybe?” Paul’s stammered response is his tell. My dad swivels his head slowly until our eyes meet, and we both quirk a brow. Paul’s not so innocent, and he knows that decimal, too.
All of this means that I, once again, am that fucking chess piece.
A faint, knowing smile hits my mouth. I hide my reaction against the lip of my glass, and when Paul’s gaze clicks to mine, eyes wide and searching for help, I simply look away.
“You know, something’s off with mine. Sit tight, Paul. All will be clear in minutes.” My dad takes his mimosa in his hand as he steps away from our table. I follow him toward the bar with my gaze. He hadn’t yet tasted his drink. He’s making a move.
“What is this? Are you in on this?” Paul leans toward me, his fist heavy on the soft white linens that drape over our table.
I take one more sip of my drink then lean forward, crossing my ankles under my chair and cursing these miserable shoes. I slide my glass forward and play with the stem, scratching the frosted glass with my long French-tipped nails. I look up through my long lashes and let the rage and disgust from years of being used just like this fuel my response.
“So, tell me, Paul. Are you one of my followers? I mean, you do know who I am. You did all along, which, to your credit, you never pretended you didn’t.” My tongue presses firmly inside my cheek while I await his response.
“Yeah. Of course I recognize you. We’ve been at the same parties. You’re online all the time, and I’ve probably seen your videos and stuff. So what?” His sudden hostility is telling. My mouth twists into a subtle sneer. Paul isn’t a nice guy deep down. I sense it.
“And my dad . . . I’m guessing he maybe mentioned that I was interested . . . in you. Meeting you, or getting to know you?”
Paul’s tongue lodges in his teeth and his chest flinches with the sudden exhale that accompanies his realization.
“He mentioned you at the club when we were talking recently, yeah,” Paul says.
I let my focus drop to the table and I chuckle under my breath.
“Son of a bitch,” I utter under my breath.
“I’m sorry?” Paul cuts in.
I laugh a little bolder, then glance up to meet Paul’s confused, pinched expression. He’s fallen too many moves behind. So have I, but I’m still ahead of Paul.
I dab my napkin on my lips, then fold it next to my glass on the table. It’s hard to abandon two-thirds of a strawberry mimosa, but my stomach is suddenly sour.
“You’ve been played, Paul. Or rather, your father’s been played. You are more like a pawn.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my instincts never failing. I spot the paparazzi across the street as I turn and glance out the window. At least Paul had the sense to get a seat inside. It won’t matter much, but at least the glass will blur his shots a little.
Fucking zoom lenses.
I turn my back to Paul completely and head toward the bar on my way out of the bistro, my dad’s back to everything he orchestrated. His jacket’s still on the chair, which he conveniently pulled out of the frame when he left our table.
“If I’m a pawn, then who are you?” Paul says, catching my ear only a few steps away.
I pause and smirk to myself before glancing over my shoulder.
“I’m the queen. And the only reason I’m here is to protect the king.” I speak loud enough for my father to hear my response.
I don’t bother to stick around for my dad’s check mate. I’ll see it soon enough. Within hours, likely. It will read something like this:Son of Molten heir caught sipping mimosas with social media star Morgan Bentley.
The details aren’t necessary for the buzz. Those will come from the followers who will pile on with comment after comment to fill in the rest of the story, the one they will make upbased on the fabricated visual my father instigated for them. I’m used to being the high school girl out with older guys. But Paul is in for it. He’s about to be the college grad trolling high school girls and plying them with alcohol. He’s going to be an obsessed fan, the kind of guy who probably stalks young girls on social media. And his credibility is going to take a missile-sized blow.
I’m not sure what his father did to piss off mine, but it was enough to make him pull out his classic bag of tricks. From getting my mom to lure me to lining up his favorite loyal photographers for the proof, my dad really threw me all-in—right to the fucking wolves. I hope that decimal point was worth it, because I am never talking to my father again.
Chapter8
