Because maybe today, it’s not.
I step in.
The room is all wood paneling and glass. A single table. One man seated.
Lawrence Westwood stands as I enter.
He’s exactly how I imagined him.
Tailored suit. Polished watch. Not a strand of hair out of place. He looks less like a father and more like a high-powered lawyer who bills by the hour.
My father—by blood and absolutely nothing else.
He stands as I enter. Offers a hand I don’t take. His expression doesn’t change. No smile, no apology. Just professional neutrality, like this is a quarterly investor meeting and I’m a number that didn’t quite add up.
“Maxwell,” he says.
“It’s Max,” I reply flatly.
He nods and gestures to the seat across from him. “Please.”
I sit. Not because he told me to, but because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he intimidates me.
He waits for a server to pour our waters, as if this is a social lunch. Only after we’re alone again does he speak.
“I’m glad you came. I wanted to speak face to face. In light of recent... developments.”
“You mean the article. Jake Armstrong blowing up your carefully buried secret?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Correct.”
“And now you’re here.” I lean forward. “Not because you suddenly want a relationship with your son, but because your PR team told you it would look better if you ‘took responsibility.’”
He considers that. “I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending that’s not a factor.”
My stomach turns. I sit back, arms crossed. “At least you’re honest about being a cold bastard.”
“There’s a lot at stake, Max.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m well aware of what's at stake. Your empire. Your reputation. Your golden brand of polished ruthlessness.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. “You have every right to be angry. But this—” he gestures between us “—isn’t personal for me. It’s strategic. There’s media momentum building, and the longer we leave it, the more it spirals.”
“You’re seriously sitting there talking about myexistencelike it’s a PR wildfire.”
“Youarea wildfire right now, Max. Every blog, every headline, every whisper in this industry is about you. Aboutus.”
“There is no us,” I snap.
Another pause. And then he lays it out, smooth and rehearsed:
“I’d like to issue a joint statement,” he says. “Something brief. Acknowledging the truth, expressing mutual respect, and stating that we’ve chosen to build a private relationship going forward. We avoid litigation, you control your narrative, and I stabilize mine.”
A bitter laugh rips out of me. “A joint statement? You think I’m going to stand next to you and pretend we’re suddenly playing catch after decades of silence?”
“It’s not about pretending,” he says coolly. “It’s about containment. You may not want anything from me, but your name is nowtied to mine—publicly and permanently. We don’t have the luxury of distance anymore.”
I shove back my chair slightly, heart pounding. “You had 32 years of distance. You had a kid who lived ten subway stops away and never once picked up the phone. Never asked if I needed help. Never sent a goddamn birthday card.”
