I look up and school my expression.
Richard North doesn’t ask permission. He never has.
My father stands there with a faint smile that isn’t warmth or pleasant, as if the world were an arrangement he’d already signed.
“Julian,” he says, then glances at Caleb. “Mercer.”
Caleb’s expression remains neutral, but his shoulders shift, an almost imperceptible tightening.
“Mr. North,” he replies.
My father pulls out a chair like he owns the restaurant as much as he owns every room he enters, and he sits. The perfect picture of entitlement dressed in tailored wool.
Caleb’s gaze flicks to me, a silent question:Are you going to allow this?
I keep my face calm because if I don’t, my father wins.
“I didn’t realize you were joining us,” I say.
“I wasn’t invited,” he replies smoothly. “But I heard you were here.”
He lifts his hand, and the waiter appears like a summoned servant.
“Bring me what you brought them, and the wine menu,” Richard says, then turns his attention back to me. “I saw the photos.”
I fight back a retort, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I may not have the patience to deal with my father. I choke down my irritation and take a sip. “What photos?”
He smiles faintly. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Feigned stupidity doesn't suit you. Thegirl, Julian.”
Lucy.
“The press appears to be enamoured with her. The pictures of you two at dinner seem to have emboldened them to keep track of her,” he continues, voice conversational. “She got into your car not long ago, Julian,yourcar,yourdriver, waiting for her outside her place of work. Like it was a normal occurrence. That’s a statement, Julian.”
I don’t respond. Because the first thing I feel isn’t irritation.
It’s satisfaction.
The press is curious.
They’re sniffing around.
They’re speculating.
And the uncomfortable truth is that it’s working out better than I planned, except I didn’t plan it. Not fully. Not like this.
Andbecause she got into my car, I hadn't checked in with Tom to see if she accepted this offering. But to hear that she did...
Richard watches me with that cold, exacting focus he used when I was twelve and made the mistake of thinking praise might be possible.
“You can’t keep hiding,” he says. “You can’t keep being invisible.”
“I’m not invisible,” I reply. “I’m private.”
“Privacy is a luxury,” he corrects. “Legacy is a responsibility.”
Caleb’s glass clinks as he sets it down. “We were in the middle of dinner.”
Richard doesn’t even look at him. “Then you won’t mind if I make efficient use of my son’s time.”
