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Chapter 1
Gabe
OneYearAgo
The bastards were camped on the doorstep again. Dad’s parties attracted the paparazzi the way rain brought out slugs. Not that he minded. No doubt his publicist had tipped the slugs off. Camera flashes dazzled.
“Smile for the camera, Gabe.”
“This way. That’s right.”
A pulse beat in my temple, but I pasted a smile on my face and paused to give the press what they wanted. Better to get it over and done with on my terms. Less chance of them sneaking around in the bushes. I had no patience for the media circus. I needed to find Emma and apologize. She was still ghosting me after I’d chuckled all the way through her latest premier in Cannes. It was hardly my fault. She could have warned me it wasn’t supposed to be a comedy.
A microphone appeared so close to my face it touched my nose. “Karen Delaney. Breakfast TV. Calverdale United at the top of the Premier League for the third year running. You had aspirations to play once. You didn’t fancy putting on your boots and joining them this season?”
“Me? No.” I flashed the most charming smile I could muster. “I’m too pretty for football.”
I dodged past her, but the microphone butted my chest. “Micky must be happy.”
“Dad’s delighted. The guys put everything on the pitch this season.”
I made for the front door, but she sidestepped me, blocking my way. “Rumor has it your dad’s getting ready to hand over the reins. Are we looking at the next director of Calverdale United?”
My smile faltered. Theclick-clickof the cameras filled my ears. Lights flashed in my eyes. Karen raised an expectant eyebrow, waiting for my answer. Fuck it. Might as well be honest. Dad would be pissed off, but maybe he’d finally get the message.
“I’m ready for the club whenever Dad’s ready to let it go.”
Karen lowered her voice, being purposefully mysterious. “What’s stopping him?”
Good question, Karen, but I have a better one—what fucking business is it of yours?
It took everything I had to hold my smile in place. “If you’ll excuse me. The party awaits.”
I squeezed through the hoard of press. A blast of heat and rock music hit me. The sweeping entrance hall teemed with famous faces: footballers, models, actors, musicians. My shoulders tightened. I had work for the club in the morning, but Dad had insisted I show my face at his party. I needed a drink after Karen Delaney’s onslaught. Everyone was always asking the same stupid questions.
Dad kept the best whiskey in his office. He wouldn’t be sharing that with the plebs. Guests lined the grand central spiraling staircase. I stopped to greet a couple of the guys I’d played with on the junior team. My Prada brogues tapped on marble as I headed up and up the never-ending steps. A gold balloon fell from a chandelier and bounced off my head. Laughter and conversation chased me before it faded to a dim pulse in Dad’s wing of the house.
A strange noise drifted from Dad’s office and gave me pause. A rhythmic scraping and grunting seeped through the door, then a stream of high-pitched cries. Either the filthy old bastard had a woman in there or he was murdering an owl. What was he thinking? Mother turned a blind eye to Dad’s affairs, but this was taking the piss. Who was it this time? Another nineteen-year-old gold digger? The old man was always a seedy piece of shit, no matter how hard he tried to maintain a veneer of respectability. He’d crawled out of the gutter and built an empire on porn and crime. Sleaze flowed in his blood.
The booze could wait. I’d leave the filthy bastard to his fun. I turned to go, but the door swung open and a pair of familiar brown eyes met mine.
Emma?
Emma’s mouth fell open; her face paled. She wriggled in her midnight blue cocktail gown, pulling the neckline up and tugging down the hem. Her hair fell in long auburn waves and a pink flush tinged her cheeks. Confusion made my brain reel. I dodged past Emma into the opulent wood-paneled office. Dad stood behind his desk, red-cheeked and sweating. He raked a hand through his disheveled salt-and-pepper hair and tucked his crumpled shirt into his trousers.
Just the two of them.
My dad and Emma.
The office closed in around me. My guts churned. This was low. Even for Micky Rivers, this was fucking low. We’d never had an easy relationship. Micky Rivers was a self-made billionaire. He mangled his vowels like a barrow boy in an East London fruit market, but he was one of the richest men in the world. All my life, he’d been distant and formidable. He’d never been in line for dad of the year, but—this? And Emma? Things hadn’t been great between us for a while, but I’d trusted her.
Emma cupped my cheeks with smooth hands, her eyes wild and imploring. “I’m sorry, Gabe. You weren’t supposed to find out like this.”
Her scent of Chanel perfume, sweat, and guilt filled my nose. A knot tightened in my chest, but I smothered the feeling and kept my voice level. “I was looking for the Macallan. It can wait.”
I headed down the landing.
Emma dashed in front of me. “Please. Don’t run off like this, Gabe. Let’s talk.”
