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He reaches for a drawer again, but this time that particular one is locked. He jiggles it and then laughs to himself as if it’s an inside joke. Pulling the key from his pocket, he mumbles, “I always forget I lock this one.” The sound of the cylinders clicking free the drawer, and my dad slides it open. He sets a red file in front of him. “Pretty girl. Tragic death.”
A depravity that has never been a part of our conversations has seeped into the room, smelling of desperation. “What are you doing?”
“I’m doing what any good father would. I’m making sure my son doesn’t fuck up his life any more than he has.”
“No, I don’t want you to give me the answer you think is right. I want you to look me in the eyes and use the organ you claim is worthless to speak to me. It may be your last chance.”
The time that passes—seconds, maybe minutes—severs another tie that binds us. There are very few left to be risking them so callously.
The creak of his chair when he shifts across the worn leather amps up the adrenaline inside me, causing me the anxiety I was always running to escape. He’ll hold his cards to his chest all damn day, so I ask, “So this is blackmail?”
“Let’s not throw words around that could get us all arrested.”
“You can’t touch me.”
“No,” he says, “but I can touch her.” When he taps the file, ashes fall from the cigar, scorching the folder. He pushes it toward me. “Go on. Take a look. It will tell you everything your girlfriend doesn’t know about her mother, including her real name.”
I’d been staring at the file, tempted to study the information to give to Story until he said that. “What do you mean?”
“I think you’re smart enough to figure it out. You’re a college graduate, after all.”
I thought my mom was bad, devious to the core, but I hate him. I fucking hate them both so much. I feel sickness growing in my stomach, the ultimatum they’re threatening—arms and legs crawling from the ashes he discarded—and gaining strength. “This was never about me getting my inheritance back, was it?”
His body language eases from the battle he appeared to be armored for when he walked into the office. “It was.” A calmer tone is frequenting his tone. Unlike the reputation he’s built as a hard-ass in the courtroom, I’m wondering if it’s finally dawned on him that he’s treating me like the enemy he’s trying to take down instead of the son he’s supposed to love. “It’s a package deal.”
Guess I was wrong. Again. “Which includes Camille . . .”
“Your mother really has her heart set on Camille. It would be a shame to disappoint her.”
“They can fuck themselves before I end up with Camille Arden again.”
“You’re talking about your mother.”
“And you’re talking about my life.”
“You have no life without us, Cooper.” His anger finally surges, his own patience unraveling. “We’ve given you everything you could ever want.” The chair hits the wall behind him, and he jabs his cigar into the ashtray.
“Except the one thing you refused me?”
“What?”
“Your love.”
“Our love?” He laughs humorlessly, unable to hide the disbelief in his eyes. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Cooper? Everything we have fucking done is because we care about you more than you have ever cared about yourself.”
“I hated myself because I saw character traits of you in me.”
“Get the fuck out of my office.”
He will never understand that I’d rather be beaten than to endure their hatred of me. A black eye, broken ribs, physical pain that I purposely sought out to make me feel anything other than this torture would heal. The hatred they have for me lives on. Eyeing the paperwork in front of him, I can’t leave now. It would expose Story to more pain she can’t survive. She’s warned me before. I’m not sure how I can protect her now.
I ask, “What are you going to do with that file?”
“Whatever I need to.”
I stare at him through a suspicious lens flooding red with anger. I’ve lost this battle, and it may have been the war. I can’t protect her any more than I can save myself.
He’s won the case against me.
He knows it, and I know it.
Now I have to act from the standpoint of damage control. “What are my options?”
He pulls his chair back toward the desk and sits down again. “Can we have a civil conversation?”
Cornered like a wild animal, I shout, “What are my fucking options?” Anger shoots through my veins, blinding me with rage. I should have known that using my happiness against me isn’t beneath them. It’s my fault.
I should have never brought Story around them.
They see her as a weak link, a way to force me to cooperate. How can they not see how good she is for me? If they just gave her a chance, they’d get to feel the warmth of her sunshine as well.
