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“Peter, this contract you sent, it’s ridiculous! You actually want all of us to stop contacting you?” Mom, who looks like she’s aged a dozen years since the last time I saw her, bursts through the door, clutching the settlement agreement I had drawn up in her fist. “I’m not signing this.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “Then don’t sign it. It’s your choice. I’m not giving you or anyone else in the family money without some conditions.”
“You don’t trust your own family?” She’s righteously aghast.
“It’s not about trust, Mom. It’s about accountability.” I fold my arms across my bare chest. “Lance and Kent are adults. They need to take responsibility for their choices. So are you and Dad. This ‘use Peter for his bank account’ can’t continue. I won’t be part of it.”
She glances around my open-plan condo, which is located in a building I designed. Through her eyes, she sees wealth and opulence, but every single thing in my place—from the natural reclaimed materials to the non-toxic paint to the bio-ethanol fireplace is a testament to sustainable luxury.
“You live like a king and you want to keep us down. Is that it?” She throws the agreement on the floor. “Look at this place.”
I’m mentally exhausted from having this same conversation over and over. “I work hard for what I have and I’m about to give you a quarter of a million dollars. How is that keeping you down? Oh, and since you asked, yes…I have the money because I designed this building and have developed technology that’s changing the world.”
“You think you’re better than us, don’t you?” She slides her hand up the wall, unimpressed.
I need her to go. Already feeling like shit about how I handled things with Jordan, I don’t need my own mother to drag me down even further. “I’m not going down this ridiculous path. If you want the money, it’s on my terms. It’s that simple. What’s it gonna be?”
“Fine, I’ll sign your damn contract. Don’t think this makes you a good son, though,” she sneers, making me wonder why the hell I’m doing this in the first place. She snatches the agreement from the ground. “Gotta pen?”
I grab one from my junk drawer. “Here.”
We both sign it and I tuck it into my laptop bag. Then I open my bank app to make the transfer.
“I’m taking that contract with me.” She reaches for my bag.
I bring my hand down to stop her. “No, I’ll send a copy when I’m in the office.”
“Owww.” She yanks her arm away. “That hurt.”
“I didn’t even touch you.” I set my phone down because warning bells go off in my head. I’ve learned to trust my gut and it’s practically screaming this is all a bad idea. I shouldn’t need to get an agreement with my own mother to stop her from asking me for money.
But what’s done is done. She signed it.
“Did you wire the money?” Mom rubs her wrist, as if she’s in some discomfort.
I pick up my phone and click send. “It’ll be in your account by tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” She grabs her purse and moves toward the door. “It didn’t have to come to this, you know.”
“Come to what?” My shoulders tense, on edge every time I’m around any of my family.
“Nothing. Never mind.” She practically sprints toward the door and slips out.
This conversation with my mother—like all conversations over the past decade—leaves me drained. In some weird way, it’s also solidified my resolve.
Instinct tells me to give Jordan some space.
After London, I’ll find a way to fix things.
My only hope is she doesn’t start on her Tryst List before I return.
I wouldn’t forgive myself if I pushed her into another guy’s arms.
Again.
Chapter eight
Jordan
