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Something alarming, as in, someone probably asked her if I’m gay. That’s what her socialite friends spout off about me when I refuse to meet their prim and proper daughters. That I’m gay.
I ignore Mom and her shallow entourage. The thought of her and Dad brings forward nausea I’ve been trying to get rid of for fucking decades.
But Gwyneth and the not-some-normal bike kid are still talking and laughing. They’re still trapped in their own world as if the rest of their surroundings don’t exist.
So I pick up my phone and call her.
Her smile drops when she sees my name on the screen, and she swallows a few times before she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Have you finished the report I sent you this morning?”
“I’m getting there.”
“Getting there doesn’t mean it’s done, Gwyneth.”
“I’ll be finished in a few.”
“My office. Now.” I hang up and take the elevator to the highest floor, then head to my office and sit behind my desk.
Soon after, there’s a knock on the door before Gwyneth comes inside.
There’s a slight blush on her face, probably from all the laughing with Christoph. The thought of him listening to the musical-like quality of her voice and the cheerfulness in it tightens my jaw and fills me with sudden yet potent rage.
She stops in the middle of the office and wipes her hand on her skirt. It’s shorter today and her shirt is tighter with the first two buttons undone. But her white sneakers are still the same, as if she can’t part with them.
And in a way, she can’t. Ever since she started having a defined taste, her obsession with things slowly began to take shape, too. I remember the first time she had a milkshake, when she was three or something.
King and I were studying for our college exams in his small apartment that he moved into after high school. At that time, he shot himself in the foot by firing the thousandth sitter because he didn’t trust them around her—not that he trusted anyone. As a result, he had to study, feed her, change her, and play with her.
Needless to say, I was dragged into it and had to indulge her so she’d stop fidgeting and being generally irritable. Not only was she especially demanding but she also refused to nap and give us a break.
“Stop whining and go to bed, Gwyneth,” I scolded when she kept hanging onto King’s leg.
Her chin trembled and she started crying so hard as if the world was ending. King gave me a dirty look, kicked me in the chin, then held his little princess and started comforting her.
She wouldn’t stop fucking crying, though. Because she needed to sleep but refused to. Whenever I glared at her, she hid her face in her father’s neck and clung to him as if he were a shield.
In search of a solution, I recalled that Sebastian liked stuffing his face with milk when he was younger, so I went to the kitchen to heat some but stopped. King did heat her a bottle, but it wasn’t doing any good.
So I improvised and made a milkshake instead, then added a random flavor available—vanilla.
When I gave her the baby cup, she clung to King, sniffling like the most wronged person on earth.
“It’s okay, Gwen, you can take it,” King said in the nice voice that he only used with his daughter. “If Uncle Nate yells at you, I’ll punch him in the face.”
“No, Daddy,” she whispered. “Don’t hurt him.”
I smiled at that and she returned it before carefully taking the cup. The moment she took her first sip, she froze, her eyes gleaming with all three colors before she grinned widely and finished it in record time.
Three minutes later, she was finally out and let us study properly.
It’s crazy to think she’s now a student herself, about our age back then.
Her gaze meets mine, still as bright and innocent as when she was a kid, though it’s a bit sadder now. “You asked for me?”
“Why do you think I did?”
