Page 12

Fuck.
“Don’t throw up,” Naomi mutters behind me.
I roll my shoulders. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
The stage lights hit me like a physical force as I step out. Hundreds of faces stare back, waiting. Judging. The vultures eager to pick apart whatever comes out of my mouth.
Time to lie through my teeth about what a great father Charles Milton was.
“Thank you, Elijah.” I set the cards down on the podium. “Our father…”
Was what? A hardass? A perfectionist who never saw me as anything but a disappointment? “Our father was…”
I glance behind me. At the gigantic picture of Dad on the screen. It looks ridiculous. Even after death, he manages to look down on us.
“My father wasn’t perfect. He was stubborn. Demanding. Sometimes, he was a real?—”
Elijah stiffens beside me like chocolate hitting cold water. Instant, harsh, brittle. His jaw locks, teeth grinding with that familiar sound of disapproval that runs in the fucking family.
At this rate, his dentist’s kids will be able to afford college.
“But he built something extraordinary. Not just this company but… us. We all learned a lot from him. His legacy isn’t in stock prices or profit margins. It’s right here.”
I gesture to Elijah, whose jaw gradually relaxes. “In the son who carries his vision forward.” Not like me. I point to Novalie. “The daughter who has his creative spirit. And…” The fuck-up who can’t even stick to the script. Dad would’ve loved this. His biggest disappointment managing to disappoint even at his memorial. Going for that post-mortem punch, old man? “We miss him. But we’ll carry on. Thank you for coming.”
I stumble off the stage, straight past Naomi, yanking at my tie like it’s trying to strangle me. Fuck the rest of this circus. Let Novalie and Elijah handle the sympathy vultures.
The bar at the entrance is mercifully dim and nearly empty.
“Whiskey. Neat.” I collapse onto a stool, signaling the bartender, a wiry kid with a bad attempt at a mustache. “Actually, make it a double.”
He pours, hands me the glass, and I down it in one go. It burns, a trail of molten cinders. I signal for another, and the kid has the audacity to hesitate. One glare, and he snaps to attention. I guess I haven’t completely lost my head-chef presence.
I take the second glass slower, letting the fumes fill my head and my nose.
When was the last time I got drunk? Not just buzzed, but full-on, obliterated. Probably that night with Dad in his study, him going on about profit margins while I knocked back his expensive scotch, pretending I gave a shit about quarterly reports. Even then, I couldn’t get drunk enough to tell him I’d rather dice onions for the rest of my life than sit in his precious boardroom.
“Starting the party without me?” Sebastian hops onto the stool next to me.
“Again, Bash. Kindly fuck off.”
“Charming as ever.” He signals the waiter. “That was quite a speech.”
“If you’re looking for tickets to my next performance, I’m fully booked. Though I hear Elijah’s doing an encore of ‘Perfect Son’ later.”
He raises his glass. “To Charles Milton.”
I snort despite myself, clinking my glass against his.
Connor joins in on my other side. The gang’s all here.
The bartender sets down another whiskey. My salvation in a glass.
“You took over my title as King of Miserable,” Sebastian raises his glass again.
I ignore it and take a sip instead. “Fuck you.”
He sighs. “Look, I know this isn’t easy. But you can’t keep doing this.”