“Enough!” My father slams his hand on the table. “We need to resolve this problem we have now.”
I quirk a brow. “Problem? You mean that I didn’t marry Veronica. Or that I married a man?”
My mother rolls her eyes. “If you prefer men, Benedict could’ve replaced Veronica. But you saidnothing. Made us look like fools.”
“I’m not your fucking pawn.”
“You are whatever we say you are, and you do whatever we tell you.” She jabs a finger at me, each motion punctuating her usual contempt for my existence. “So, get this marriage annulled immediately.”
I laugh. “Good luck with that.”
“Keep pushing and you’ll find out just how little power you have. I still control the majority of your trust, your future, everything you think you own.” My father’s tone is cold, calculating.
Before I can respond, the door opens and Blake steps inside. “Mr. Walsh, the Callahans are requesting to speak with you.”
My father smooths his tie and jacket, the calm mask slipping back into place. “We'll finish this later.”
“Looking forward to it.”
At the door, I get in the security fuck’s face until we’re nose-to-nose. “Get too close to my husband again and I’ll break your fucking fingers.”
“Connor.” My father’s voice is deep, threatening.
“Just making sure your help understands not to touch what’s mine.”
I walk into the hallway, lip throbbing and cheek aching. But, for the first time, I’m smiling for real. Even as fresh blood seeps into my mouth.
Until Henneman's face flashes in my mind—his wide amber eyes staring at me through the blinds.
Goddammit.
No one’s ever supposed to see weakness from me, especially not him.
I exhale hard and roll my neck, then crack my knuckles. The elevator better fucking be there.
Behind me, my parents' muffled voices echo into the hallway. Damage control, most likely.
Fuck them.
I press my tongue to the split again until it hurts. The pain is mine. The blood is mine.
The choice to blow up their merger was mine.
Now comes the price.
Chapter 7
Ryan
My hands won't stop shaking. I count backwards from ten, then again, but it’s not working. So, I try a different technique my former therapist taught me. Five things I can see. Four things I can touch. Three—
Fuck, just get to the elevators.
I keep walking, but I can't stop thinking about the way Connor’s head snapped sideways, blood seeping from his lip. My stomach twists.
Dad never laid a hand on me. Not once. Even when I broke his favorite fishing rod or tracked mud through Mom's clean kitchen. And my foster dad—he'd sooner cut off his own arm than hurt me.
But Connor's father backhanded him.
