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"Whatever do you mean?" I ask sharply.
He turns to look at me, opens his mouth ever-so-slightly, but shuts it again. "We've got an empire to build, Son. Our enemies grow stronger, and we must always remain a step ahead."
"Is that the sole reason why you insist I train by your side each day?"
"Yes," he says, a little too fast. I narrow my eyes. He avoids looking at me, uncharacteristic of the man who avoids no one's gaze.
"Father, please," I ask again. "Do you promise there's nothing more to it?"
"Have I ever been known to lie, Philippe?" he asks.
I shake my head. We reach the dining room, where another highly polished table is set for one. A crystal glass, a porcelain plate setting and silver utensils rest atop a pristine white tablecloth on the furthest end.
I pause in the doorway, confusion furrowing my brow. "What's all this?" I ask the Maître d’. "Where's my seat?"
My father places a hand on my shoulder, his palm rough and calloused. "I am dining alone, Philippe. You have another engagement tonight. Victor Garcia’s daughter is in town. Sarah, if I recall correctly. Her visit is in celebration of his acquisition of SkyAir.”
I suppress a groan. Another vapid socialite paraded before me in hopes I'd settle down. "Father, is this necessary?"
"You need a wife," my father states, his tone brooking no argument. "I won't have my only son and heir unmarried at thirty. The families are talking."
I can’t stop from raking a hand through my hair in frustration. A few months ago, I accepted these arranged outings as part of my duty. But these dates have chafed at me, and I yearn for a choice in the matter. Or at least, a woman of better grace.
My father's grip on my shoulder tightens as if sensing my reluctance. "I've indulged your independent streak long enough, Philippe. You will marry, and you will do it soon."
The command in his voice is absolute. I nod once, the motion sharp. "Yes, Father."
He releases me and straightens his suit jacket. "Good. The car will be ready in an hour. I believe you will be pleased with an evening at the Met." The lines around his eyes crinkle as his mouth slightly tugs up in one corner.
I watch him as he walks to his seat at the head of the table, once again settling to eat his dinner alone. In recent months, it feels like he's put me up for an obligation almost every night. When it's not a date, it is work. In the evenings, he insists I attend to our tasks by myself.
It's beginning to feel like he's cloned me to be a version of him.
Cold dejection settles in my veins as I accept my duty. Although I long for even a little taste of freedom, with so much to do and such little time, it feels like an unattainable dream.
I stride to my suite, loosening my tie with impatient fingers. Marriage - the word curdles like spoilt milk. I've yet to meet a single woman whom my father deems suitable, who doesn't bore me to tears after five minutes of conversation.
They're stylishly wrapped, tightly sealing in their empty cores.
But my father's orders compel me tonight, just as they do every night.
I shower quickly, the hot water doing little to thaw the frost in my limbs. Slicking back my damp black hair, I dress in an impeccable blue Armani suit. My white shirt strokes crisp against my throat. The rich fabric fits like a second skin, bespoke and elegant.
I add a simple platinum watch, sliding it over my tattooed wrist. The intricate lines of a spindle coiled with yarn slither up my arm, disappearing under the sustainable wool blend.
A glance in the mirror reveals the polished stranger that I have become accustomed to sharing a life with. I loosen my tie, allowing a hint of rebellion to peek through the seams. It's a small act, but it centers me.
My phone buzzes with a notification. I check it as I leave the suite. It’s a text from my security team. They are in place. My private box at the opera house is prepared and ready. I feel a glimmer of anticipation pierce the malaise shrouding my mood.
My father was right. No matter how the evening progresses, at least there will be music. That alone is worth enduring the rest. And the music might lessen conversation with what I am sure will be another vain woman.
I descend the grand staircase, my polished oxfords clicking on the marble floor, and I head for the waiting town car. As we begin driving, a convoy leads and follows my vehicle for security.I tell my assistant to ensure the convoy stays outside Ms. Garcia's estate. I believe it might unsettle her.
The sleek town car glides through the iron gates of the Garcia estate, coming to a stop at the bottom of an impressive Perron staircase. I exit the car and straighten my cuffs, affecting an air of bored nonchalance.
The click of heels announces Sarah's arrival before I see her. She emerges in a cloud of perfume and glittering jewels, dressed more for a gala than the opera. I press my lips together, swallowing a remark about her attire. It's not my place to say anything. I'm here to entertain and impress, nothing more.
"Philippe, darling!" Sarah exclaims, embracing me in a cloud of floral scent. She says my name as if she knows me, when in fact, we’ve only seen each other at public events and that from a distance. She kisses me on each cheek, and I endure the contact stiffly before handing her off into the car.
