“There’s no reason for you take such a tone with me,” he feigns offense, but I can see the gleam in his eye. “You never know,” his voice is light and dread fills my gut, “I might be the owner of this farm in a year. I wonder if it would include your little business,” he muses and goes to the extent of tapping his chin.
As if this isn’t my life, and it is simply a stage for his next exceptional performance.
My stomach roils and I have to swallow hard to keep the bile at bay. The very last thing that should happen is this man getting his hands on my family’s land. He never valued it in any way, beyond selling it. I’m sure he’s fantasized about it over the years.
When I was old enough to see him for who he really is, I noticed the way he looked around like he was just waiting for the chance to cut it up. Hunger; the hunger and greed on his face is always right there on the surface.
It’s the same look he has on his face right now.
“I’ll never let you have this farm,” I sneer the words, the certainty in them making me step closer to him. Not because I want to be, but because he needs to know that I’ll protect this land and everything my family has built. I’ll do anything to ensure he never gets his slick fingers on it.
“Never say never,” he taunts. “When I went to the lawyer to find out why he didn’t contact me for the reading of the will, he told me I’m not explicitly mentioned.”
He scoffs as if the whole thing is a personal affront to him. I cross my arms across my chest and stand a little taller. Knowing he wasn’t mentioned, and nothing was given to him outright, must have stung.
While he might have recovered from it, I have no doubt it’s what has driven him to come here. He wants a win, and if he can’t get it from the lawyer then he’ll try and carve it out of me, even better if he can twist the knife both ways while doing it.
“If I wasn’t mentioned,” his gaze sweeps over me and it’s clear from the look on his face, he finds me wanting, “that means you must have come into a lot of cash.”
“I’m not giving you a fucking cent,” I growl the words, my voice dropping to a deadly octave.
One side of my father’s mouth tips up, as if I’ve just given him more than he was expecting. I don’t give a fuck if he thinks I just confirmed his worst fears—that I have all the personal accounts and anything non-business related that was left behind. Who fucking cares? I won’t hand the money over. He’d have to kill me.
And my father might be a lot of things, but he’s not a murderer. I don’t think.
“Maybe,” he shrugs his hands going up in faux surrender, “maybe not. What I know for sure is that you’re not married.” He barks out a laugh, while I keep my expression fixed in a neutral mask. “I never knew Dad had such a sense of humor. He knew you weren’t married and yet he put that clause in the will.”
His laugh is damn close to a movie villain laugh. It’s ridiculous.
If he thinks he’s making me fear him, he’s got it fucking backwards. Watching him scramble for something, anything, to hold onto and hold over my head is pathetic. I almost can’t believe how I used to pin my hopes and my need for love on this man, just because I thought I was supposed to need him.
But I never did.
I doubt that he knows how to love anyone other than himself, anyway.
“I knew your stepmother would come in handy one of these days,” he says the words like he’s the one being generous by saying them. He’s not.
The only thing I can do is shake my head in admonishment. He’s a joke.
“I wonder if it’ll be better for me to sell it off at one time or sell it in pieces,” he muses while turning toward the expanse of land that has been in my family’s name for generations.
“You won’t be touching a fucking thing around here, including the land,” the words are cutting, my tone steel.
“Only if you find someone to marry you. So, what are you going to do, huh? Ask some random bitch to marry you? After you’ve come into whatever money that old fucking geezer left you?” He snorts out a laugh and looks at me with pity. “Talk about stupid. They’d just take you for all you’re worth, including the farm, when divorcing your ass.”
“Why do you assume there would be a divorce?” I hate myself for asking, but this conversation reminds me of driving past a bad accident. You can’t help but look.
Maybe it’s better that you do because someone should bear witness.
Someone needs to see, to know, to feel it, to wince, at the aftermath.
“Bitches aren’t good for much,” his tone takes on a certain note to it, like he’s bequeathing me with fatherly knowledge I should have been privy to for years now. “They’re good for fucking with your life and giving you a fucking headache. They’re good for taking you to the cleaners when they can’t just fall in line and be a good wife,” his lip curls with his words. Then he smirks and I clench my jaw. “And they’re good for the gash between their thighs.”
He claps his hands like the action is a bow and he’s just performed an entertaining trick. I’m far from fucking entertained.
“If you can find a wife, soon,” he arches his eyebrow in challenge and then waves his hand dismissively like the concept is ridiculous, “then you’ll find out soon enough. Wouldn’t want to ruin all the fun.”
“You’re a fucking disgrace,” I grit out the words through my clenched teeth. “You need to turn right fucking around and take your piece of shit car back down the drive.”
