Page 25 of Best Kept Vows (Savannah’s Best #6)

Sebastian

P erplexed, I looked at my assistant. “Who?”

“Your mother…Mrs. Dolly Boone,” Kayla repeated.

“Here?”

“Yes, Sebastian.” This time, she rolled her eyes.

I ran a hand through my hair.

“I can tell her you’re not here,” Kayla offered.

I scoffed. “She’ll track me down.” I’d been ignoring her calls and messages.

I hadn’t listened to the five voicemails she’d left me, either.

I simply didn’t have the time to deal with my mother’s drama.

And I knew there was drama because Lia had texted me to let me know that she’d told Mama off and that she was now my problem like she always should’ve been.

It was a not-so-subtle hint that I had been shoving my mother at Lia—asking her to bend and conform to get along with her, and she was done . I was fortunate she hadn’t done this years ago—or maybe if she had, I’d have gotten my head out of my ass sooner.

Still, none of this was Lia’s fault. I knew that. Being alone in a big fucking house, which you were spending more time in than you ever did because you missed your wife, gave you a whole lot of time to think.

I had also booked a session with Dr. Monica Ryan for couples counseling, and just the idea of seeing a therapist made me start examining myself more closely—kind of like scrubbing the house before the cleaners showed up.

“Let her in.” I looked at the calendar on my laptop. “And move my eleven o’clock to eleven thirty.”

I could give Mama thirty minutes to rant and rave, and after that, I’d be done. Time-limit this shit.

Dolly Boone had grown up wealthy, but an ill-timed storm and a string of poor investments wiped out her father’s fortune.

She married into money, only to watch her husband’s fortune sink with a failing company.

You’d think that with experience, she’d be more thoughtful about what she spent money on, but then she flashed me a new Christian Dior diamond bracelet, and I knew she didn’t understand how much trouble we were in.

“Sebastian.” She held her chin up, and I kissed her cheek perfunctorily before leading her to one of my client chairs.

She was in some dress that told me she would be attending a formal luncheon after she reamed my ass for whatever sins she could tack on Lia and me.

“Mama, I only have thirty minutes,” I warned her and sat on my chair .

She gave me a withering look. “Your wife was over on Saturday.”

I reclined in my chair as I considered her.

All my life, I’d avoided drama with Mama because she could manage a considerable amount of it.

When Mama had drama, Dad got frustrated, which led to a tsunami of events at home: screaming, throwing things, banging doors, and ultimately pointing fingers at either Coco or me.

I quickly learned that to avoid having my father yell at me, I needed to keep my mother happy.

Coco and I walked around on eggshells with Mama.

It was a habit. Though Coco was getting along better with Mama since they were peas in a pod, she knew that she was always on notice because Mama could get upset any minute.

“Yeah, Mama, I know.”

Mama’s eyes darkened, her lips pressing into a tight line. “She was rude to me. I think it’s unacceptable that both of you are not showing up for Sunday dinner, which is tradition.”

I nodded slowly, considering my response. “You talk down to Lia, which is why she said she didn’t want to attend dinners any longer.”

If Mama could be blown away with a feather, now was the time. She looked comical in her shock and horror.

“I don’t find the dinners appealing, either. Coco, you, and Birdie complain about my wife, and then about someone else, and then you bitch about Dad, that he’s still put you on an allowance and—it’s just boring.” I lounged back and smirked .

Mama glared at me, her eyes burning with fury. “What has happened to you?”

I shrugged. “My wife left me, Mama, because I was a crap husband. So, I’m trying to be a better?—”

“Good riddance!” Mama spat out.

“See, that’s the kind of thing I don’t like you sayin’ about my wife.” I got up and looked at my watch. “I know I said I had a half hour, but if you’re gonna be talking about my wife, and not in a flattering manner, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

Mama gripped the arms of her chair. “Your father will hear of this.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“I’ll get you kicked out of the company,” she threatened next.

“You’ll be doing me a favor.”

“And make Bryce CEO.” I saw the venom in her eyes.

“Go right ahead. At least now, if we sell the company, we’ll all make money. He takes over and drives it into the ground—you’ll be left with nothing but Dad‘s investments, which won’t buy you diamond tennis bracelets.” I gave her new jewelry a pointed look.

I knew my mother was surprised but so was I. All I’d ever wanted was to run this company, and now it didn’t matter. Was it because it was failing? Would I want to stay if it were successful?

I thought about it while Mama spluttered, spewing more poison that I didn’t even bother to listen to .

No, I realized—I didn’t care about the company right now because it had taken my wife from me.

I walked to my office door, held it open, and waved toward it, making it clear to my mother that I wanted her to leave. She got the hint, though not gracefully, muttering about how ungrateful I was, along with a few other unflattering remarks that barely registered.

That evening, I was packing up to leave work with a heavy heart, when Hendrix called me. My heart was heavy because Lia wouldn’t be at home. She’d be at that cozy apartment.

I’d taken the farmers’ market peaches to her on Sunday, and she let me in and showed me her apartment, where she was staying for two whole months . She hadn’t asked me to stay for a drink; instead, she had told me she had a salon appointment.

While I was sitting at home, examining my imploded life, Lia seemed to be living hers. She had a new job, a new fun apartment in the center of the city, no Sunday dinners, and she looked—I both hated and loved it—content.

“He asked for you,” Hendrix informed me. “Says he wants to have dinner with you tonight.”

“How’s he doing?” I asked.

“He’s having more bad days than good ones.”

When I got to my parents’ home, Pamela told me that my mother was not home, which was a relief. Mama had a busy social life and had always preferred not to be at home unless she was entertaining .

“I set up dinner in the kitchen. He wanted to eat in the breakfast nook,” she told me.

I followed Pamela into the kitchen, where I found my father in his wheelchair beside Hendrix, who rose as soon as he saw me. We shook hands, and then I took a seat next to my father on the bench where I’d had breakfast as a child.

“Chicken…parm,” my father said. “Your favorite.”

I smiled. “Yeah, Dad.”

Pamela served us. The cook had made chicken parmigiana with fusilli instead of linguini because the smaller pasta was easier for Dad to eat.

“There’s also a lemon icebox pie, if you eat all your dinner,” Pamela teased my father.

He grunted.

“I’m going to eat in my room.” Hendrix got up. “He needs me, you call, okay?”

I nodded, unsure as to what was going on.

“I…am…fine,” my father growled when he saw my concern. I wasn’t exactly nervous, but I worried that I wouldn’t know how to take care of him if he needed me to.

“Ada…Tris…tan.” He took a deep breath.

“Why don’t we eat first and then talk?”

Dad looked around and then glared at me. “Get…wine.”

My father wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol, considering all the pills he was on. But the man was dying; at least, that’s what Hendrix had told Lia. If he wanted wine, then fuck it, the man should drink wine.

I pulled out a bottle of Barolo from the red wine fridge in the kitchen.

Dad had an extensive cellar in the basement, where he had nearly five hundred bottles of wine.

He was a collector. I thought about how he’d saved all this wine and was now not able to drink any of it.

He’d waited too long to stop working. Waited too long to live his life the way he dreamed—traveling the world after retirement.

He took a sip of the wine and gave me a half smile. “Good.”

“Yeah, Dad.”

We ate in silence, and I saw that he ate barely a quarter of what I did at the same time. I didn’t push him when he said he was done.

He did drink a whole glass of wine and was pretty gleeful about it, almost like a child who had eaten candy when he wasn’t allowed.

“Lia left…you.”

I nodded.

My father looked me squarely in the eye, clearer and more alert than I’d seen him in months. “You’re…a damn fool.”

“I know, Dad.”

“You lost…wife.” He struggled to keep his words steady. “Your fault.”

“I know that, too, Dad.”

He sighed. “I…don’t have much…left.”

I put my hand on his, and he gave me a half smile. “Sell the company.”

I blinked, momentarily stunned.

“Sell it,” he repeated.

“Dad? ”

He shook his head as vigorously as he could, which wasn’t much. “Don’t…waste your life. I…did. I…look at me.”

“Dad, you didn’t get a stroke because?—”

“It’s drowning…you,” he cut me off. “Was drowning me, too. Should’ve…sold years ago.”

His words hit me like a physical blow. “Then, why didn’t you?” I demanded angrily.

He smirked. “Pride.”

That single word cracked open a part of me—like I was suddenly seeing with a clarity I’d never had before.

Pride .

That was it.

That’s why I’d worked myself into the ground. I wanted to prove to my father that I could carry the Boone legacy. I told myself it was about duty, but really…it was pride .

Dad’s eyes blazed with unusual intensity. “You can’t save it. It’s…fucked.”

The significant weight of his admission made me feel dizzy with relief.

For years, I’d been killing myself to rescue a business, not just because of duty or legacy, but to prove my worth to a man who was finally admitting he’d been wrong.

“Yeah, Dad. It’s fucked.”

“Let it…go.”

“I can’t sell without you signing off?—”

“Nigel has it.”

Nigel Ivanir was the Boone family lawyer and had been for years.

He and Dad used to be friends when they were kids.

Nigel held the purse strings for whatever Boone money was earned from investments.

Mama hated Nigel because he controlled the allowance she received to keep the house and her life running; keeping the Boone name financially respectable even as the walls crumbled around us.

Hearing my father tell me that he had already signed off on selling Boone Metals felt like the gavel of a judge in a courtroom after a guilty verdict.

“Dad,”—I set my wine glass down—“are you sure?”

He met my gaze unwaveringly. “Money’s…running out.”

I knew that.

Dad sighed, rubbing a trembling hand over his mouth. “Investments can only…go so far.”

Over the years, my father had built up stocks, real estate holdings, and a portfolio that had nothing to do with Boone Metals, which was supposed to keep the family secure.

“How bad is it?” I asked carefully.

Dad looked away, his lips pressing together. “Okay…your mother’s allowance…is gonna shrink soon.”

I let out a humorless laugh. Dolly Boone finally forced to budget? The world really was ending.

Dad took another slow sip of wine. “Selling’s…only way. Won’t get…much. Debt’s high.”

I swallowed hard. He was right. By the time we paid off outstanding loans, backdated vendor payments, and gave severance for employees who’d be out of a job, there wouldn’t be much left.

Boone Metals wasn’t worth what it had been in its heyday.

If we’d sold ten years ago, my family would have walked away rich.

Now? It would be a salvage operation at best .

“I didn’t…give it to you…all those years ago,” Dad said, his voice rough. “Because I…didn’t want you to know.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” All these years, I’d assumed he didn’t believe in me—only to realize now that it was his own insecurities, his fear of failure, that had shaped his decisions and ultimately mine.

“Pride.”

There was that word again, which had ruined both of us.

Dad had kept Boone Metals out of pride, and so had I, fighting for a legacy that no one wanted—not Tristan, not Ada, and, apparently, not even my father.

And for what? To prove I was better than my father?

In the end, all I had was a big, empty house, a wife who had left, and a company that was sucking the life out of me.

“Nigel has…authority,” Dad said again. “Talk to him.”

I nodded, my mind already spinning with the next steps.

Selling wasn’t as easy as calling up a buyer.

It would take months—maybe a year—of negotiations, clearing debt, finding the right deal.

But it was inevitable now. There was no saving Boone Metals.

All I could do was make sure what was left could sustain the family.

Dad reached for his glass, fingers trembling slightly, and I steadied it for him. He let out a slow breath.

“You’re…young. Live!” he muttered. “Don’t waste…your life.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “I don’t plan to.”

He gave me a tired smirk. “Good. Took you…long enough. ”

I huffed out a weak laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, well. Pride seems to run in the family.”

Dad closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted, but when he opened them again, they were clear and focused. “Son…it’s time.”

A sudden prick of tears stung my eyes. He wasn’t just saying it was time for bed—he was telling me it was time to sell the company, time for him to leave this world, and time for me to finally start living my life.

“Yeah, Dad. It’s time,” I agreed.