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“Yes, and you’re clearly no better fit to take care of yourself than you were as a child,” Mother bites out.
I flinch, bringing my knees up, hugging myself.
My parents stand over my hospital bed, shoulder to shoulder, in a familiar united front. The kind that tells me they won’t be budging on this. The kind that tells me it’s already been done, whateveritis.
I’m an adult now…
I don’t understand.
I’m supposed to be free now, and they’re telling me I’m not?
Behind them, a woman shuffles awkwardly, pulling me from my thoughts. She introduced herself as my social worker when she came in, but my parents were quick to swarm in around her, blocking her from my view.
“If we could just—” the social worker tries to interrupt, but Father is quick to take over the conversation as always.
“What your mother means,” he says pointedly, ever the mediator, “is that we don’t feel you currently have your best interests in mind, Skyler. Fortunately for you, addiction is perfectly curable if you’re willing to put in the work.”
I frown at my knees. “I don’t—”
“Son, denial does us no favors. The evidence speaks for itself.”
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I pull at a loose thread in my sweats. I’m glad to be out of the scratchy hospital gown, but of course my parents brought me the wrong pants. These are too loose. Too worn.
“If I may—”
Again, the social worker is cut off, this time by my mother.
“Rehab will get you cleaned up and right as rain, and then we can reconvene with the lawyers and Dr. Matyschki to discuss what comes next.”
I blink long and hard. “Next?” I whisper.
“We’ve discussed with Frank and adjusted the stipulations regarding your trust,” Father explains, referring to their accountant. “Seeing as you’re incapable of managing your own life at this present time, and are a viable danger to yourself, Dr. Matyschki, as well as Frank, and our lawyer, recommended that we put proper measures in place to protect our assets as well as this family’s reputation. The paperwork for guardianship will be filed today. And then you’ll be on the first flight out tomorrow to Black Diamond.”
“Black Diamond?”
“Yes, they have a rehabilitation program built within a luxurious resort and spa, from what I hear, so you’ll want for nothing there. It’s the best that money has to offer, and more importantly, it values privacy and anonymity above all else.”
Right. Because that’s what’s important here.
It’s ridiculous. They talk as if they’re more important than they are. They’re not famous—they’re just business savvy and know where to invest.
But if there’s anything that holds true for Charles and Marisol Sinclair, it’s that their egos will always outweigh any legacy they strive to have.
There’s simply no reasoning with them.
Swallowing hard before I can remember how sore my throat is, I wince and work my jaw around, massaging my fingers into my neck as if I could smooth out the raw, irritated flesh within.
“Stop fidgeting and pay attention,” Mother hisses.
I’m not fidgeting,I snipe inwardly, knowing better than to try and defend myself out loud. Not that I’ll be able to get more than a word out before Mother cuts me off.
Stilling my movements, I finally manage to ask. “How long will I have to be there?”
“Dr. Matyschki recommends a sixty-day stay minimum—just over eight weeks. Depending on your progress as noted by the staff and therapists who will be working with you there, this could be extended if need be.”
I nibble the corner of my lip and nod.
Dr. Matyschki is an idiot.
