“Expected.” Rhys smiled, unable to stop himself from being amused at Beckett’s tenacity.
“It’s done, then,” Brent said. “And in regards to the favor you requested, there’s a plane on standby at the airport waiting for you.”
“Right.” Rhys cleared his throat. “Thank you for your help with this.”
“It’s my job. Mostly. I’m not a personal assistant.” Brent laughed.
“Well…nonetheless.”
“Let’s get a drink when you’re back in Myers Bluff,” Brent suggested. “I’d love to meet the infamous Rhys St. George in person.”
“Absolutely. Talk soon.” Rhys hung up the phone and gave himself a minute to catch his breath. This was it. Brent Jarman was worth his weight in gold and he’d found a malleable loophole in a decade-old contract that was going to change Rhys’s life. Two signatures later—his and Beckett’s—and Rhys’s life savings was safely out of his father’s reach.
Hecould be out of his father’s reach.
Well, there was no time like the present.
Rhys stood, making sure his wallet and phone were in his pocket, then he walked around his desk, through his office and toward the door. He stopped, hesitating. He had words for his father, an infinite amount of things he wanted to say. Rhys wanted to let his father know how he’d ruined Rhys’s life, how he’d ruined Rhys. But he stopped himself. There was no point. His father wouldn’t listen and worse, his father wouldn’t care. The words would be for Rhys and Rhys alone, and he realized that they were no longer true.
Marcus St. George was nothing to him. He had tried to mold Rhys into the man he wanted him to be, into a worthy heir, but instead he’d driven a spike between them too big to bridge. And in turn, he’d given Rhys the chance to pave the road the way he wanted. Sure, Rhys wished that he could have come around sooner. That he had realized the wrongness of things before he’d started encroaching on middle age, but what was the saying?
Better late than never.
His departure was bittersweet. He could feel the misery of the whole thing down to his bones. He was ready to go, but this was his life. This had been his life. And for what? Rhys knew he was meant to be the heir, but he’d always planned to hand it all off to Sebastian at some point anyway.
Rhys had never planned on getting married; he’d never planned on having kids. The St. George legacy would die with him or carry on with his brother. But then Sebastian divorced his wife and met Remington, and sure they could adopt or use a surrogate…but he didn’t know what their plans were. And soon, very soon, none of it would matter.
The resentment Rhys felt toward his father burned in his blood, and he had to actively keep the feelings segmented in his brain, lest they turn to self-loathing instead.
For as much as he’d made a pawn of others for his entire life, his father had done the same to him and it was far too long before he’d realized it. He’d never be a fool again… even though sometimes Beckett made him feel foolish. Love, rather, made him feel foolish. His newfound romanticism was very out of character, but somehow felt right. If nothing else, it was what Beckett deserved. Beckett also deserved all of the money in the bank account that was now sitting in his name too, though. He couldn’t win them all, apparently.
Rhys inhaled a steady breath, giving the office one final look before turning away from the shared door and slipping out into the hallway. He didn’t sneak, but he moved to not draw attention to himself. Rhys stuck to the carpeted hall runner to muffle the sounds of his shoes, but when he reached the foyer, the clack of his heels echoed across the marble floor. He hesitated, remembering bringing Sebastian back home months before, remembering being a teenager, remembering a child. Remembering his mother.
There was a person he hadn’t thought of in years.
Rhys knew it wouldn’t be the last time he set foot in the estate he’d grown up in, but he also knew he wouldn’t return until his father was dead in the ground or financially ruined. And he found himself hoping that the latter came first, but that was a problem for him to deal with in Myers Bluff.
His new home.
Rhys walked out of the house and down the stairs. There was a driver waiting because there wasalwaysa driver waiting. He saw Rhys and ran around to the back of the car, pulling open the rear passenger door.
“Where to, Mr. St. George?”
“The airstrip.” Rhys settled into the seat as the door closed, tipping his head to stare up at the house through the tinted window. The car turned on and the tires crunched over gravel as he was driven down the driveway. They’d barely reached the front gate when his phone rang in his pocket. He didn’t need to look at the caller ID to see who it was.
“What?” he answered, closing his eyes and dropping his head back against the headrest.
“Where on earth do you think you’re going?” his father asked.
Rhys exhaled loudly into the phone. “I’m going home.”
“This is your home.”
“No. I don’t think it is.” He smoothed down the pleat of his slacks, curling his fingers around his knee. His palm was sweaty and that was terribly out of character. He hated it, but he also knew what was coming next.
“I warned you what would happen if you didn’t fall in line.”
“You did.”
