From the outside, it may seem like we hate each other, but it’s the opposite. We’ve been together through thick and thin. We’ve lived hard, and it shows in the peppering of gray hair we all have. We even built RHL Solutions from the ground up and turned it into the multi-billion-dollar company it is today, with me as the CEO, Rory as the CFO, and Luke as the COO.
Luke changes the subject, brushing aside Rory’s barb. “How’s your son doing?”
“Fine,” I answer curtly.
It’s not that I’m ashamed of him. My relationship with my son has always been rocky, his mother saw to that.
Rory joins the discussion. “You loaned him some money for that startup, right? How’s that going?”
“Not good.” I feel a headache forming behind my eyes.
“How much did he lose?” Rory isn’t asking because he’s nosey. His mind naturally wanders toward the numbers.
“A quarter.”
Rory lifts a brow. “A quarter of what? One hundred or one million?”
My eyes slide to him. “What do you think?”
It’s no one’s fault but my own. In trying to teach my son how to handle his money, I haven’t done enough. After we talk, he talks to his mother, and she has always been a leech.
“Is he going to pay you back this time?” Luke inquires.
“What do you think?” My head rolls in his direction.
Yet another failure on my part as a father.
“He said he met someone, and he really likes her,” I add.
Rory gives me a faint smile, nudging my shoulder. “Ah. Do you get to meet her?”
“We’ll see.” I’ve only met a few people he’s dated. I don’t know if he’s embarrassed by me or what.
“Have you heard anything from that parasite of an ex-wife?” Rory grimaces.
“Not lately,” I answer, but apparently, I’ve spoken too soon. My phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, I show Rory the screen. “You jinxed it. Thanks a lot.”
If I don’t answer now, she’ll keep calling. She’ll blow up my phone until I respond. It’s happened many times before. It’s how she still manipulates me, even though we’ve been divorced for almost three decades now.
I tap the answer button and sigh, already done with this conversation. “What do you need, Giselle?”
“Why do you assume I need something?” Giselle returns, forcing a hint of hurt in her tone.
I shake my head. “You never call me unless you do.”
“Can’t I call just to chat?”
“I don’t have time for this.” I rub my hand over my mouth, searching for even an ounce of patience.
“Fine. I want to move,” she finally admits.
Squinting, I frown. “Okay. Do it,” I respond without emotion.
“I need money.”
Ding! Ding! Ding! We have confirmation. Money is the motive.
Staring at the floor, I grit out, “I send you more than plenty in alimony every month. If you’re not satisfied with your condo on the West Side, figure it out.”
