CHAPTER 37
Maya
I THOUGHT MY FATHER AND MICHEL WOULD REALIZEthe ridiculousness of their fight and reconcile within a day. A week, at most.
I was dead wrong.
Two weeks had passed since our disastrous dinner at the Laurents’ house, and our families were still locked in a cold war. Instead of dwindling, my father’s ire had ballooned to epic proportions during that time.
In his eyes, Michel’s refusal to apologize or acknowledge any wrongdoing was worse than his dinner with Charles Whitaker. It was an unforgivable betrayal, and he’d forbidden our entire family from interacting with any of the Laurents.
I got a small reprieve because I had to work with Sebastian on the launch, but my father was so unforgiving that we were too nervous to meet up outside of work. My father had eyes and ears everywhere—more so now that he had a reason to suspect we might rebel, considering he was the only one mad at the Laurents—so we communicated solely via texts and calls.
Even then, I had to be careful. Out of an abundance of caution, I’d changed Sebastian’s name in my phone in case a notification popped up at the wrong time.
My mother and I both tried reasoning with my father, to no avail.
“Yvonne and I are supposed to go to Switzerland soon. You can’t expect me to cancel when we’ve been planning this for months,” she argued. But my father didn’t bend, and she ended up canceling the trip.
She didn’t talk to him for days after, but it didn’t matter. Once my father made up his mind, there was almost no changing it. The same went for Michel.
It was like watching two grown men act like teenagers throwing temper tantrums. I would’ve pressed the issue harder, but I hadn’t seen my father this enraged since my uncle Raj cheated him out of twenty thousand dollars during a blackjack game gone wrong. I’d been a child then, but I distinctly remembered all hell breaking loose.
My father didn’t care about the money. It was the principle of the matter, and he hadn’t spoken to my uncle, his own brother, since. That’d been almost thirty years ago. If he found out I was breaking his No Contact rule, he might actually disown me.
Thankfully, my father’s anger wasn’t enough to overshadow his business sensibilities. We were careful to shield his falling-out with Michel from the press, and they begrudgingly showed up to the joint press conference Sebastian and I had scheduled ahead of next month’s launch.
It was held in a hotel ballroom in Midtown. Our fathers occupied the middle two seats while Sebastian and I sat on opposite ends of the table. For forty-five minutes, we smiled for the cameras and answered questions about the collaboration. My father and Michel even riffed off each other for a few jokes that made everyone laugh.
If I didn’t know better, I’d assume they were still the best of friends, but I sat close enough to sense the tension rolling off my father in waves.
I was also hyperaware of Sebastian’s presence three seats down from mine. I avoided looking at him for fear my longing would give us away, and our secret glances would be captured on video for the world to see.
But he was there, slipping beneath my skin and filling mylungs. I didn’t have to look at him to hear the smooth timbre of his voice or envision his wry but easy smile as he answered a particularly obvious question.
It was a special kind of torture to be this close to him and notbewith him, but at least we could still interact under the guise of work.
Thank God for small blessings.
The press event ended, and I made sure to say bye to every reporter before they left. Ezra was also here, but I liked to connect with the media personally. It generated a lot of goodwill.
Soon, the room was nearly empty. I checked in with Ezra, but my skin tingled halfway through our debrief. I glanced over, my breath catching when I saw Sebastian watching me while he spoke with someone fromFood & Wine.
The tingles sparked and intensified. The air between us grew taut, as if someone had strung a live wire between us, making it hum with everything we couldn’t say.
I ended my conversation with Ezra and moved toward Sebastian—I could use work as an excuse—but my father stopped me with a sharp look.
“The conference is over. Let’s go.” He didn’t acknowledge the Laurents. Michel was already halfway out the door, his movements purposeful, like my father didn’t exist.
“Dad, please.” Most of the reporters were gone, but I kept my voice low just in case. “I know you’re upset with Michel, but this can’t go on forever. You’ve been friends for decades. Don’t let Charles Whitaker, of all people, drive a wedge between you two.”
My father’s mouth tightened. “I told you, I’ve made up my mind. We’re not discussing this anymore.”
“But—”
“Stop.” He held up one hand. “This isn’t up for debate. Michel has had plenty of opportunities to admit he was wrong, but he chose not to. If he’s willing to throw away our friendshipfor the sake of pride and one dinner, then that friendship wasn’t worth much to begin with. It doesn’t matter how many years we’ve known each other. Once trust is lost, you can’t win it back.”
Michel wasn’t the only one who was letting his pride get in the way, but I was smart enough to keep that observation to myself.
