Caleb's expression hardens. "That's bullshit. You know that, right?"
Do I? Looking at the perfectly manicured lawns passing by outside, the houses that cost more than I'll make in mylifetime, I'm not so sure. For the first time since we started this relationship, I feel the full weight of our differences.
"James?" Caleb's hand finds mine, his grip tight, almost desperate. "Tell me you know that's bullshit."
Turning back to him and pushing aside the doubts his father planted. "I know," I lie, squeezing his hand back. "It's bullshit."
But as the car takes us back to campus, away from the cold, perfect Huntington estate, I can't shake the feeling that something has changed between us. The cracks his father pointed out have started to spread, tiny breaks that will someday pull us apart.
Fuck. No. That's precisely what he wants me to think. Clever bastard, planting those seeds and then acting like he was being "helpful." Like, he gives a shit about anyone's happiness beyond his own political career. That's what he wanted—to make me doubt, to make me feel like I'm not enough.Mission accomplished, you manipulative prick.
But the doubts are there now, whether I want them or not. What if Caleb does eventually choose them? The family, the money, the perfect political future? He keeps saying he won't, but he also keeps showing up to these things, keeps trying to please them even when they treat him, treat us, like garbage.
And I'm pissed at myself for even letting that man's words matter. For standing in that perfect house and feeling small. For wondering, even for a second, if seventy-five grand was a reasonable offer.
Seventy-five thousand dollars. The number echoes in my head, not because I want the money, but because someone thought that was the price of walking away from Caleb.
The truly fucked up part of today is that somewhere, Caleb Huntington II is probably convinced he made a very reasonable offer.
Chapter 24
How to Lose a Guy in One Conversation
CALEB
The brass door knocker weighs heavily in my hand. Cold. Formal. Everything the last two days haven't been.
James is probably still in the common room, laptop balanced on his knees, running commentary on that terrible reality show someone put on the TV. Gavin's likely forcing more pancakes on Haru, who keeps insisting American portions will kill him while accepting seconds.
Should have stayed there in that almost-empty frat house that feels more like a home than this place ever has.
But Huntington's don't cancel.
With a sigh, I knock, even though I lived here for eighteen years and technically still have a key somewhere. The formality is appropriate somehow. I'm not coming home; I'm attending a meeting.
Maria answers, her same impassive expression softening slightly when she sees me. "Mr. Huntington. Your father is waiting in the study."
"Thanks, Maria. How was your Christmas?"
The question catches her off guard, and her professional mask slips for a moment. "It was... very nice, thank you. My grandchildren visited."
My smile's real this time. "How many do you have now?"
"Four," she says, a hint of pride breaking through. "The youngest is three months."
"That's great. Do you have pictures?"
She hesitates, glancing toward the study, then pulls out her phone. Her hands shake slightly as she shows me a photo of four children arranged around a Christmas tree. "They're beautiful, but Mr. Huntington, I should?—"
"Caleb?" My father's voice cuts through the moment. He stands at the end of the hallway, perfectly dressed as always, expression neutral. "I don't pay Maria to show you family photos."
And just like that, the warmth evaporates. Maria straightens, slipping her phone away, but not before I catch the look she gives me—something between sympathy and warning. "Excuse me, sir."
What was she about to say?
Following my father into his study, irritation simmers under my skin. The room is exactly as I remember it, dark wood, leather-bound books, and the distinct sense that every object has been chosen to convey power and tradition.
"Sit," he says, pointing to the chair across from his desk. Not beside him on the sofa, not in one of the comfortable armchairs by the window. Across from his desk, like a student called to the principal's office.
