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Because they may have been beautiful looking—similar to their son—but you could literally feel their ugliness—like it was coating your skin.
“Lincoln,” his dad said coldly, his gaze licking over me from top to bottom, a tiny smirk peeking out from his lips that made my blood freeze.
“Father,” Lincoln replied nonchalantly, like we hadn’t just stepped into hell. He pulled out my chair for me and waited for me to sit before pushing me in.
Despite the fact they weren’t speaking to me, their cold eyes were all over me as I sat there, judging my every breath.
“Wine,” his mother finally announced, holding up her glass. I glanced around the room because there was no one in here. Was she expecting someone to just materialize from the wall?
Evidently, people did do that here, because a second later, a man dressed in a sharp gray suit practically materialized from a door I hadn’t even noticed, hurrying to fill up her wine glass.
"Lincoln, darling, when are you going to cut that hair of yours?" she asked, her voice dripping with condescension, staring across the table at him like he was a bug she wanted to smash.
I wasn't sure at that momentwhoactually had the worst childhood, me or him. My mother had been disinterested in me, she'd forgotten me ninety nine percent of the time, but she’d never looked at me with so much distaste as I was seeing right now, like she was regretting the day I was born.
"When you stop drinking, mother dearest," Lincoln drawled.
Lincoln's mother made an affronted gasp, before throwing back the very wine he’d just made fun of.
Lincoln's father seemed bored of it all. He was lounged back in his high back chair, toying with the dark amber liquid in the tumbler in front of him. "That's enough, Shannon," he said in a silky, dangerous voice that had Lincoln's mother shutting up immediately.
I was sitting up straight as well, and I could see how he'd be a success in the boardroom, even having never been in one myself. There was something commanding in his voice, something dangerous that made you terrified to disappoint him.
I shot a quick glance at Lincoln, but he didn't seem to be affected by it at all, though.
"Tonight’s a night for celebration after all," continued his father, his gaze flicking briefly to one of the many empty chairs at the table.
"Haven't called it a celebration for a while, Father. Have you turned over a new leaf?" Lincoln asked lightly, playing with the knife at his place setting.
His father chuckled darkly, not seeming to mind the sarcasm in his son's tone in the slightest.
"I’m talking about the fact that I’ve set up a meeting with the board, to announce the start of your work with the company, the day after you finish that silly little game."
My gaze bounced between Lincoln and his father, not understanding what he was talking about. That silly little game? I couldn’t imagine someone would think Lincoln's career as the most talked about hockey player in the NHL would be called "silly" or even "a little game," but I guess there was a first time for everything. I wondered what it would be like to be that blind. To see a star shining right in front of you, and to completely ignore it.
It was beyond my comprehension.
"Monroe and I will actually be in the Bahamas celebrating our Stanley Cup win. So I'm afraid we won't be able to make it," Lincoln said coldly.
Oh! He hadn't mentioned anything about the Bahamas before. I tried to think about my school schedule, even knowing I would follow Lincoln anywhere.
Lincoln's gaze flicked to mine. "Surprise," he said in a deadpan voice.
Lincoln's mother, Shannon, suddenly snorted. "Lincoln, you’ve got to be kidding me. She's just a child.” There was a slightly demented sounding giggle in her voice as she said the word “child.”
I stiffened in my chair. I didn’t like being called a child—or talked about like I wasn't in the room.
"Her name’s Monroe, Mother," Lincoln growled, the first sign of aggression in his voice at his mother's slight insult towards me.
“Monroe,” she snorted, her gaze flicking across my dress like someone had shoved shit in her face. “A fitting name.”
‘What does that mean?” snapped Lincoln.
“That’s a lovely dress, Mrs. Daniels,” I blurted out, trying to avoid a fight when we were only five minutes in.
The three of them stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
“And what is that delicious smell? I bet you were cooking for hours today. That was so kind.”
