Chapter One
~ Connor ~
I tugged at my shirt collar as I stepped into the hotel's high end restaurant, immediately feeling like a Walmart clearance item mistakenly shelved at Nordstrom.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting prismatic light across polished marble floors that probably cost more than my entire college education—what little of it I'd managed to scrape together.
At least it wasn’tLe Bernardin.
The text from my mother had been suspiciously cheerful:"Family dinner tonight. Be there by seven."No mention of why or what the occasion was. That should've been my first clue that something was off.
My grandfather sat at a round table draped in white linen, looking lost in his thoughts. At least he was genuinely happy to see me, his weathered face breaking into a smile when I approached.
My father stood beside him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he was waiting for permission to flee.
And then there was my mother.
Margaret Matthews glided toward me in a dress that definitely wasn't bought at the discount stores she'd dragged me to throughout my childhood. Her blonde hair was swept up in an elegant updo that screamed "I spent three hours at the salon for this."
"Connor, darling! You made it." She air-kissed both my cheeks, the cloud of her expensive perfume nearly choking me. "We were beginning to worry."
I was exactly four minutes late.
"Wouldn't miss it," I lied, forcing a smile. "What's the occasion?"
"Does a mother need an occasion to see her son?" Her hand rested on my arm, manicured nails lightly digging into my sleeve.
Just what I need, quality time with the vultures.
"You usually do," I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice. The last three times my mother had called me, it had been to ask if I could "help out" with various bills. Help out meaning pay them entirely.
"Connor!" My father stepped forward, clapping me awkwardly on the shoulder. "How's school going? Still taking those... classes?"
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "Yeah, Dad. That's generally what college consists of. Classes."
"Of course, of course." He nodded, glancing nervously at my mother.
We settled into our seats, and I found myself unconsciously fidgeting with my watch—a secondhand Timex that kept decent time despite the scratched face. It had cost me two shifts of overtime at the campus bookstore.
My mother's eyes flickered to it, a brief flash of disapproval crossing her face before her smile returned. The smile never quite reached her eyes, which remained calculating and cold.
"Tell us everything," she insisted, leaning forward. "How are your studies? Have you met anyone special?"
I almost choked.
In eighteen years, my mother had never once asked about my love life. The most personal question she typically asked was whether I had enough money for her to borrow some.
"Studies are fine. No one special." I kept my answers short, trying to figure out what game they were playing.
"You work too hard," my father chimed in. "All work and no play, you know what they say."
Says the man who once told me minimum wage was'good enough for someone like you'.
"I like working," I said, which was only partially true. I liked the independence it gave me. I also liked being able to feed myself and pay my bills. It wasn’t like my family was helping out at all.
They tended to borrow money, not give it.
My grandfather patted my hand, his touch light but reassuring. "You're a good boy, Connor, always have been."
