“Big words coming from such a small man. I’ve heard a few things about you this weekend. Mum and Daddy finally cut you off, I see.”
But the reaction I’m hoping for never comes, and dread returns as Kyle just laughs. “That’s how you want to play it? Fine. Go fuck yourself. I’ll get what I deserve either way.”
“Finally, something we can agree on.”
He sneers. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
There’s no chance Reed is going to give Kyle a job. He hates him more than I do, which means there’s only one way this ends, and that’s with him finding out about Pulse.
I should be the one to tell him. Rip the Band-Aid off and face it. But his opinion of me is already on shaky ground, and I’m not exactly in a rush to ruin it for good.
Kyle’s never followed through on anything in his life. Maybe all of this is a fool’s game, a bluff played by a desperate man. What does he stand to gain by exposing me? Nothing.
It’s in his best interest to keep it and try again.
Later, when shit hits the fan, I’ll look back on this decision and laugh.
CHAPTER51
MUM’S THE WORD (DON’T HATE ME)
LINCOLN
Why am I fighting this? Reed has made no secret of how little he respects me, and that’s without knowing the truth.
I’ve been maintaining a lie for so long, I managed to convince myself that, eventually, he’d see me as I hope to be, not as the foolish kid he’s set on remembering me as.
Perhaps it’s worth calling Kyle’s bluff and seeing how this plays out. Rip off the Band-Aid. Call the game.
Leave the past where it belongs.
I take petty pleasure in loading up on food for Ivy— berries, croissants, a generous serving of yogurt (with a sneaky side of marmalade, because I will convince her it’s delicious if it kills me). Richard says nothing, but his breathing has a distinctly loud disdain embedded in it.
When I reach the stairs back to the bedrooms, I find Darcy attempting in vain to get information out of Mum about her trip. I’m more interested in what the hell she was doing sneaking out last night, but if Ivy is right, I don’t need the visual. Or the confirmation.
Before I can pass, Mum’s arm shoots out. “Lincoln, do you have a moment?”
My hands are full, so I simply raise them in explanation, only to find them abruptly empty when Darcy steals the dishes off me. “I’ll take these to Ivy,” she says innocently. They’ve definitely been talking about me, then. “I even promise to let her put pants on first.”
I follow Mum to one of the draftier sitting rooms, where Richard has knocked down Deacon’s mahogany bookshelves and replaced them with a fake stone wall and a flatscreen television. It physically hurts to look at, and a small part of me weeps at what might have become of the first edition Alexandre Dumas collection I’d always hoped to inherit.
“How are you?” Mum asks, sitting uncomfortably straight on a leather bench seat that looks as though it was carved in stone. As I sit beside her, I realize it feels that way as well.
“Fine,” I say, condensing down a thousand feelings into as quick an answer as I can hope to achieve. Where would I even start? The fact that I’m deeply in love with the most amazing woman? That Kyle is currently attempting to blackmail his way into Reed’s pocket? That I still miss London and Dad, but also, inexplicably, her, even though she’s right here, because I haven’t the first clue how to talk to her?
Surely “fine” covers all that.
“How was Paris?” I ask in return.
“My trip was,” she smiles, “enlightening.” There are twin pink spots on her cheeks. I know without a doubt Ivy guessed correctly, and I definitely do not want any more details than that.
But I am absolutely certain I need to be there when Reed gets a clue. He’ll probably short out.
In the years since the divorce, we’ve never spoken about it— who stayed, who left, who got hurt. Not one word, because why would we ever talk about the wound when we can pick at it, never let it heal?
Ivy is right. I have been distracting myself. “Do you blame me for choosing Dad?”
Mum doesn’t look mad, or even disappointed. No, she smiles. It’s small, and yes, sad, but still genuine, and it cracks open something in my chest that I’m not prepared for.
