My father didn’t look at him.
Richard North lifted his glass, took a measured sip of wine, then set it down with deliberate precision.
“Traffic?” he repeated.
Theo grinned. “Chicago’s full of surprises.”
“You’re late,” my father said.
“Yes.”
“You’re careless.”
Theo shrugged. “I am here.”
The silence that followed was sharp.
Theo reached for the breadbasket, unfazed. Same dark hair as mine, worn longer. Same bone structure. Same last name. The resemblance only ever seemed to irritate our father.
“I texted,” Theo added. “Didn’t want you starting without me.”
“I didn’t,” Richard replied coolly. “We were waiting.”
Waiting. Always waiting.
Theo didn't wait for the server; he reached across the table, grabbed the bottle of wine and poured himself a generous glass, then signalled the server for another bottle.
Theo took a swig and then glanced between us. “Looks like I missed the warm-up.”
“You missed nothing of substance,” my father said. “Julian understands the situation.”
Theo’s gaze slid to me, eyebrow lifting. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I said flatly.
I always understood.
“Good,” Richard replied. “Then we can dispense with euphemisms.”
He turned to face me fully.
“You need a wife,” he said. “And you need an heir.”
There it was, no framing, no pretense, straight to it.
Theo let out a low whistle. “Wow. Straight to reproduction.”
“This is not a joke,” Richard said.
“Agreed,” Theo replied and then pouted. “But it is wildly unfair that no one ever asks me when I will pop out a few kiddos.”
My father didn’t miss a beat. “That’s because you shouldn’t.”
Theo laughed, sharp and surprised. “Jesus.”
I kept my expression neutral, even as something coiled tight.
“You think this is about tradition,” Richard continued, eyes on me. “It’s not. It’s about expansion.”
