I clear my throat. He needs to hear it from me, not a notification. “I’ve fucked things with Chelsea.”
He looks up, eyebrows arching as though waiting for a punchline. When it doesn’t come, he sets the device down with care, the soft click against stone somehow more threatening than shouting.
“Then unfuck them.”
“I can’t.” His nostrils flare, jaw clenched tight. “I won’t.”
“You’ll do what I tell you to, or you can kiss your inheritance goodbye.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
His lips press together so hard, they disappear. Just a dark slash across his face. “You think you have a choice in this? After your repeated expulsions, after the money I spent cleaning up your messes, you think you can opt out of my request?”
“Request.” I snort out a laugh. “If you’re such a good businessman, explain why you can’t get a merger across the line without pimping out your son?” I wait a beat. “Or your wife.”
His face twists with fury, such a dark red he looks near a heart attack, then he visibly calms. “You were content with the arrangement last month. What changed?”
When I don’t answer, he gives a tight-lipped smile, scenting blood.
“Of course. Your pallid little house guest.”
My hands are fists. My pulse beats in my eyes. “Leave her out of this.”
“But you used my money to fund those expensive new glasses of hers, didn’t you? Why would I leave her out of this when I’m the one footing the bill?”
He tilts his head to the side, smirking. His eyes glint with a dangerous mix of amusement and menace, like a predator toying with its prey just before going in for the kill.
“Get Chelsea back on board, and I won’t mind. Otherwise…?” He pauses, letting the tension thicken between us like a choking fog, his smirk widening into something sharper, more sinister.
He steps forward until we’re toe to toe, his breath smelling faintly of vodka and mint. Heat radiates off him like a furnace.
His voice drops half an octave, the threat clear. “Otherwise, I’ll bring your new friend down here.” Each syllable is deliberate, venomous. “And I’ll make damn sure I get my money’s worth.”
I flinch as the words hit, but it’s not my own pain that registers. It’s hers.
What she’d experience, what she’d feel. Just imagination, but the visions are like an open gash in my mind.
My father leaves the room before I recover. The basement door slams closed and a moment later, the shower turns on downstairs.
I walk along the hallway, eyes on the floor rather than the basement door ahead of me. I pause outside and place my palm against the wood.
It’s cold against my skin.It’s just a door. Just a room.I shiver, slowly easing it open.
Noise from the shower grows louder. Dad hums something tuneless and satisfied, the song of a sated predator while my face heats, heartbeat thumping loud in my ears.
The stone stairs pitch as I stare down them. Steeper and steeper, I’m falling, each step scraping skin off my back.
I slam my palm against the wall.
The floor snaps back level.
I’m shaking as I take the first step down, my palm keeping contact with the cold wall. The shower cuts off and I freeze, listening to my father’s movement. The glass door sliding open. Footsteps on tile. The soft scuff of his towel.
I force myself down another step. Another.
The ache in my arm intensifies like the bones are once again knitting together, the phantom pain itching until my fingers curl, fear curdling my stomach.
But I’m not that seven-year-old boy anymore.
