I expect to see a smirk.
But his face is stone. His jaw is locked so tight a muscle ticks in his cheek. And those gray eyes... they aren't watching the crowd. They aren't searching for his son.
They’re burning into me with a terrifying intensity that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
I push past him, bursting through the double doors and into the biting November air.
The valet stand is busy, but I don't wait. I run toward the employee lot where I had to park my beat-up sedan because it wasn't nice enough for the front row.
I fumble for my keys, my hands shaking now that the adrenaline is fading. I rip the door open, slide into the freezing seat, and jam the key in the ignition.
As I peel out of the lot, leaving Emerald Hills and its fake smiles and cruel laughter behind, I make a promise to the girl in the rearview mirror.
I press my foot down on the gas, the beat-up engine whining in protest.
He thinks he’s untouchable because of his last name? He thinks he owns this town?
I think about the man standing in the shadows of the ballroom. The man who actually owns the name Ryder is so proud of.
I’m not going to let Ryder win. I’m not going to fade away into the background like he expects.
He took my dignity.
So I’m going to take his legacy.
My son is a fucking disappointment.
Actually, that’s too kind.
He’s a liability. A waste of oxygen wrapped in a four-thousand-dollar suit I paid for.
I stand on the curb outside the country club, the cold mountain air biting at my face, watching the taillights of Blair’s beat-up sedan disappear into the darkness. The red glow fades, swallowed by the winding road, but the image of her face—shattered, humiliated, beautiful in her devastation—is burned onto the back of my eyelids.
"Dad."
Ryder’s voice grates on my nerves like metal on bone.
I don’t turn around. I don’t want to look at him. If I look at him right now, with the adrenaline still pumping through my veins and the scent of Blair’s distress heavy in the air, I might actually kill him.
And as much as I loathe the weakness in him, filicide is messy.
"Dad, listen," he tries again, stepping into my peripheral vision. He looks flushed, manic. Like a child who broke a vaseand is trying to blame gravity. "Vivi... she’s crazy. I didn’t know she was going to show up. You have to believe me."
I finally turn my head. Slowly.
He flinches.
Good.
"You didn't know," I repeat, my voice flat. Dead.
"No! I mean, yeah, we hooked up a few times, but she wasn't supposed to be here. She wasn't supposed to ruin the night."
Ruin the night.
He thinks this is about a fundraiser. About social standing.
He has no idea that he just handed me the only thing I’ve wanted for three years.
