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Chapter 30
Atlas
Atlas stared at the grey ceiling. Sleep had evaded him since he’d gotten back to his penthouse almost three weeks ago. He sat up, pulling the covers away. His feet touched the cold marble floor, jolting him. Rubbing a hand over his face, Atlas sighed. This was more than exhaustion. He had zero motivation to get out of bed and go to work. He’d been moving through the motions. His house was too damn quiet. There were no creaking floors as he walked to the bathroom. No view of the ocean from his windows. He missed the salty sea breeze that had greeted him each morning.
And the two faces that had sat across from him at the breakfast table almost every day. Zoey’s questions and love for ice cream. She’s my niece. Sure, the paternity test hadn’t come in yet, but it explained why he’d felt attached to her in some way. She had Oliver’s eyes. My eyes.
Atlas relieved himself and then went to the kitchen before starting the cappuccino machine. The earthy scent of coffee wafted up a few moments later. It was nothing like the bitter stuff Jasmine had made. His stomach soured. Christ, did she have to ruin everything for me? He dumped the cup into the sink as his phone buzzed.
He unplugged it from the charger and lifted it as his dad’s name flashed.
Father: Meeting in the conference room at 8. Results are in.
A weight settled in his chest, slinking into his belly. Atlas fisted his hands, anger burning through his veins. Rage at himself for letting his guard down, for trusting Jasmine. For thinking he could have something good just for him, untouched by his family. His brother had been his best friend his whole life, but now . . . he didn’t know how to feel.
He closed his eyes, her vulnerable green gaze flashing in his mind. The last things he’d said to her repeated in his mind. Guilt and pain shredded his heart into ribbons. “How could I be so stupid?” he asked the empty kitchen. “Everybody fucking wants something from me.” And I’m always second best. She thought I was Oliver, the father of her child. Had those moments between them meant nothing? Was it all a ploy to manipulate him? The memory of her shaking and sobbing in his arms rocked through him. No. That was real. Wasn’t it? How could he know what to trust anymore? Atlas picked up the crystal bowl from the counter and flung it against the wall, shattering it into countless broken pieces. Much like him.
* * *
Two hours later, Atlas pulled open the door to the conference room. His mother and father were seated on one side of the table with the family lawyers on the other. Oliver paced at the far end, his suit crumpled and his hair wild.
His brother’s eyes darted to his, relief flashing when they made eye contact. Atlas diverted his attention to the empty chair at the end of the long table before he sat.
“Okay, everyone’s here. Let’s get this over with,” his father commanded.
“Sit down, Oliver,” his mother snapped. She never talked that way to her favorite son.
Oliver took a seat next to his father.
“I can’t believe you’d be so stupid,” she continued.
“It wasn’t my fault. I used a condom. How is this possible?” He shook his head.
“Did you check if it broke?” his mother asked.
“I—fuck.” He shook his head.
“You could lose your shares in the company. You know how your grandfather is. Your brother hasn’t had this problem and he’s not even married,” their father grated.
Oliver’s head dipped; his shoulders slumped. This was the moment when his parents saw Oliver as a failure, and for once, Atlas was the son in favor. Why didn’t it feel better?
“Where’s Christina?” Atlas asked.
Everyone’s head snapped towards him.
“Why would I tell her if the bastard’s not mine?”
Atlas shook his head, disgust bubbling up. “She’s your fucking kid, Olli. You and I both know it.”
The first lawyer cleared his throat. His grey hair reflected the light overhead. “I have the results right here.”
“Well, get on with it. Is Oliver the father?” his mother asked.
The lawyer slid out the paperwork and opened a file. His bushy eyebrows drew together. “Yes. Oliver Remington is a match. He’s the father.”
Their father’s hand slammed onto the table at the same time his mother shot out of the chair, arms crossed, eyes blazing.
Oliver’s face paled. “What do I have to do to make this go away?”
