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Oliver whips his head toward me, his eyes blazing with anger. “You!”

I remain seated but raise my glass to him. “You played the game, Oliver. You played it well. But you lost in the end.”

I watch Agent Mercer lead him away.

We may have won, assuming the board votes in my favor on Monday, but I’ve personally lost, because I’ll go home to an empty bed and an empty house.

37

SEBASTIAN

Jesse, Aaron, and I argue about who should go see Dad.

Aaron claimed he should be the one because he was the least affected. Jesse wanted to go so he could berate him for throwing me under the bus. But in the end, I was the one to go.

I need to see him.

As Agent Mercer signs us in, I have second thoughts. Mom was of the opinion I should let him rot, never to hear from any of us again. But something is pulling me here.

“You sure you want to do this?” Agent Mercer asks. She agrees with Mom.

“I’m sure.”

We’re about to step through the doorway, when the tapping of running heels echoes down the hallway.

“Wait! I’m here. I know I’m late. Sorry.”

I turn sharply. I know that voice.

Isabella is out of breath, her cheeks red, her hair pulled back into that same tight ponytail.

“What are you doing here?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“I’m here to do my job,” she says.

“Your job description doesn’t include visiting my father in prison.”

“How about you don’t tell me how to do my job, and I won’t tell you how to do yours.” Isabella nods to Agent Mercer. “Olivia.”

“Isabella.”

“You seem to think your job involves telling me what to do,” I shoot back.

“Too bad you’re not very good at listening.”

I see Agent Mercer’s lips curl into a slight smirk at Isabella’s quip before she masters the emotion.

“Are you ready?” Agent Mercer looks at me.

I’m led to a small room with a metal table. Within minutes, they escort in the man I’ve spent my entire life trying to please, only to fail and have him attempt to frame me.

My father looks smaller in the orange jumpsuit. He looks older, his skin sallow under the harsh lights. His eyes are still predatory: cold, calculating, and devoid of any remorse.

“You look tired, Sebastian,” he says. No hello. No apology. Just a critique. His first instinct, even behind bars, is to insult me.

“I haven’t been sleeping much. Turns out, cleaning up your mess is taking a lot of time.”

Dad’s face is impassive despite the fact that he’s the one in jail. “You always were oversensitive. You know I did what had to be done to save our name.”