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But he’s never hit me.
Previous punishments were long silences or heavy stares. He’s always preferred to let his disappointment do the talking, to smother me like a heavy blanket.
Pain trickles in slowly, as the shock ebbs away. I touch the raw skin of my cheek tentatively, tasting the metallic tang of copper on my tongue.
Fuck, that hurt. More than a punch from anyone else would have.
There’s so much I could say to him. Justifications, explanations, admissions, excuses.
I could say I’m sick of being boiled down to my last name. I was born and raised to be a Kensington, and it’s all I’m diminished to.
And I fucked up, trying to escape that for a minute.
I could shove my father’s own shortcomings in his face. Tell him he was a terrible father and a worse husband and that plants wither without nourishment, but people become desperate. Become petty. Tell him that he’s the reason his wife begged me to fuck her. That he shouldn’t have married a woman younger than me and then ignored her existence, if her loyalty mattered to him.
“I’ve lost every iota of respect I ever had for you, Oliver,” he hisses, pointing a finger in my face. His knuckles are red and raw, just as angry as his expression. “So don’t you fucking say sorry, becauseKensingtons don’t apologize. And you be damn grateful for that name because it’s the only reason you’re not struggling to find a janitorial job. Outside of the company, you’re no son of mine.”
I knew my father wouldn’t want an apology. Knew he sees admittance of mistakes to be weakness. But I needed an outlet. To expel the churning mass of regret in some way.
He wouldn’t even let me get the damn word out.
Sorry, I say in my head.
But what comes out is, “I’veneverbeen your son outside the company.”
A vein in my father’s temple pulses. I focus on the rapid rise and fall, as rhythmic as a drum’s beat.
He’s used to deference from me. Crew was always the headache. The son who partied too much and snuck girls into the estate and was too easygoing for my father’s ruthless tastes.
I was the reliable, predictable child. And while my father might not have always respected that obeisance, he appreciated it. Maybe more than he realized up until now.
My father walks over to the crystal tumbler I know is filled with his favorite whiskey. It costs five figures a bottle, and he downs it like water. I watch him pour himself a second glass, purposefully not offering me one. The minimal light is enough to show the platinum wedding band on his left hand is already gone.
Red eyes and soft pleas and a workaholic reputation. That’s how I ended up here.
I ended a marriage.
A volatile, unhappy one I’m quite certain my father only entertained because having an attractive, young wife was convenient arm candy. Someone he could train and control, the same way he molded Crew and me.
But still…a marriage.
And despite spending most of my life being surrounded by—and half of—unhappy couples, that commitment still seems sacred to me.
Maybe because I saw it transform Crew firsthand. Watched my brother discover love as part of his marriage and learn to treat it as something precious.
My father and Candace never shared that bond, but knowing so isn’t much of a relief. Not when my cheek stings, and I can hear Candace’s desperate pleas begging me to make him reconsider.
Arthur Kensington doesn’t listen to anyone.
Especially not me.
He turns, one eyebrow arching as he drains half a glass of amber liquid.
“Get the hell out of my sight.”
I turn, knowing he’ll think less of me for walking away on command, like a well-trained dog. But if I stay, he’ll bemoan my inability to comply with a simple instruction. With him, I can never win.
“Oliver.”
