Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
“You need to quit this charade and do what you’re told, Mason.” He stands from his seat quickly, his chair rolling backward until it hits the wall. It disturbs the blinds and streams of dim light flicker into the room.
“I don’t need to do anything but breathe and pay taxes.”
He could order me around like that all he wanted back when I was a child or before I knew the truth, but now I have no respect for the man in front of me. I’m disgusted by him and caught on the edge of what’s right and wrong. I should turn him in to the authorities and let him rot. I grit my teeth as I stare back at him. It’s what’s right, but I can’t bring myself to send my own father to prison.
A low hum of admonishment deep in his throat makes the smirk on my face widen into a smile.
“I have my own company, my own life—” I start but my father cuts me off. Nothing new there.
“You were born a Thatcher, and you’ll die a Thatcher.” The words leave a chill across my skin. That’s the crux of the problem. I was born into this life and I can’t run from it. Plus my company is in debt to him. It was a rookie mistake I made back before I knew what I was doing. When I didn’t see him for the man he really is.
“Why do you even care what I do?” I finally ask him. His precious reputation is just fine now that I’m an adult and I’ve moved on from the fuckup I used to be. “I’m not the one coming to you—”
“She did,” he answers simply with a spark in his eyes and the corners of his lips upturned as if that’s all the ammunition he needs. In some respects, he’s right. All the people in this city know where I come from and what it means to be a Thatcher. They know I have money and power behind me. That’s all anyone here cares about anyway. New York is all about the bottom dollar.
Nonchalantly shrugging my shoulders, I stride closer to the desk, bracing myself by gripping the back of the chair opposite him. “You decided how to deal with her without vetting what she said.” I meet his glare easily, willing him to tell me again how he saved me. “She didn’t have anything on me. She couldn’t have done anything.” My voice rises toward the end of my statement and I hate that I’ve shown him this weak side of me. Even if only for a moment.
Control. I thrive with control.
A heavy breath leaves him as he stares back with pure hate but he doesn’t say a word. I knew he wouldn’t. He’s wrong. Dead wrong and ruined if I open my mouth to anyone. He took the initiative so I’d owe him, but in reality we both know that he owes me now.
“It’s your fuckup, not mine.” I practically spit out the words and shove the chair forward as I turn to leave him. My body’s tense and the anger continues to rise. I try not to let it show. I hate that I can’t control myself around this prick. Everyone else I can handle, but my own father, not so much.
“Mason!” he calls after me. His voice turns to white noise as the blood rushing in my ears gets louder and louder, drowning out all the bullshit.
The second I open his office door, he goes silent. He’ll never let anyone hear us fighting. Never. Secrets are always kept behind closed doors. It’s a family rule.
The door shuts with a loud thunk and as I walk down the empty hall, the thin carpeting muffles the sound of my black leather oxfords smacking against the ground at an incessant pace.
Miss Geist looks up from her spot at her desk. The wrinkles around her eyes deepen as she tilts her head and gives me that familiar smile she always has for me. It’s one that says: Oh, what have you done now?
Through the years, even after my mother’s death, Miss Theresa Geist has given me that look. She’s the only one who showed me any genuine regret and kindness when I had to deal with my mother’s passing. She’s a good person. I have no idea what she’s doing here working for a man like my father.
She clutches the small pendant on her thin silver necklace and her forbearing smile changes to something more reserved when I look back at her. It’s instantaneous and makes me halt in my steps. I know I must look pissed; I’m beyond furious. It’s been two days since my father told me what he’d done all those months ago and my anger hasn’t waned one bit. Deep down I think I knew what he’d done back then, even if he never admitted it until now. I wish he hadn’t. The whole situation makes me sick.