Page 5

I take a sip of whiskey, my mood stormy from the protesters who parked in front of the building earlier. The words written on their signs were loud and clear.

“We won’t be silenced anymore!”

“Stop hiding and make a statement!”

“Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you get to buy our voices!”

Security had to escort me into the building. Other patrons looked at me in pity. I had to stay silent at the recommendation of our PR and legal departments and our crisis management firm until we have an official press release out.

But goddamn it, I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell the masses out there I’m not protecting our disgraced CFO, that what Patterson did isn’t what the Bank of Columbia stands for.

“How’s my favorite nephew doing? Stealing the hearts of all the ladies and leaving none of them for me?”

Shaking my head, I bite down my frustration and turn away from the oak bar table at MacGregor’s Whiskey Library inside The Orchid, the most exclusive establishment in Manhattan and the pinnacle of Fleur Entertainment. It’s the place where all our dreams can be fulfilled—great food, luxurious living, concierge services, companionship of all kinds.

“Uncle Ian.” I force out a grin, pulling him in for a hug. “It’s been awhile. Sorry to bring you in for such circumstances.”

He waves me off as if it’s no bother he flew in from Paris, where he’s currently working in the top ballet company there, just to save my ass and Bank of Columbia from the scandal. But that’s who my uncle is. A good man, someone who puts his family first, a much better man than me. I nod to an attendant and they take us to a small table in the darkened corner of the lounge.

“What did I say about that? Call me Ian. The whole ‘uncle’ thing makes me feel old and ruins my bachelor image. And I was going to come visit for Christmas. What’s three months early, anyway?”

We settle into our seats and I take another look at the man who’s more like a father to me than my dad ever was. Uncle Ian looks good—his blond hair a few shades lighter than mine, eyes the same sky-blue that runs in our family. If it weren’t for the fine lines marring his forehead and the white hairs at his temples, he could probably pass as my older brother.

“ABTC. Moving back here. Are you sure?” I ask after a waitress comes and takes our orders.

“I’m ready for a new challenge after I wrap things up in Paris. Your timing works perfectly.”

Sighing, I nod. “I’m sure you saw the protesters out front. They somehow knew I was going to be here today.”

He grimaces and I continue, “I talked it over with our people. They recommend announcing our sponsorship of ABTC and kicking off an international ballet tour at the same time. All proceeds from the tour will go toward victims of sexual assault. The public needs more than the standard apology statement and we can’t pussyfoot around this scandal.”

Ian rubs the scruff on his face, appearing deep in thought. “Do you think it’ll work? This tour? I’ll help any way I can to make sure it’s the best damn tour anyone has ever seen.”

“Oh please. Having one of the top choreographers in the world as our artistic director is already a selling point. And you’re known in the dance circles for being an ally to assault victims. It’s a cause you believe in. You’re the perfect person to bring on board for this.”

Something flashes across Ian’s face, too quickly for me to discern, his expression solemn. I swallow and murmur, “You know you don’t have to do this. This tour will be linked to the scandal. You don’t need to tie your name to it.” It’s another source of guilt that’s been bothering me for a while. If this tour doesn’t do well, I don’t want to taint his hard-earned reputation with it.

I fucked up. I should be the only one to bear the consequences.

“I’m a Vaughn first, choreographer second.” A muscle tics in his jaw, and he reaches over and pats my hand. “Can’t leave my nephew to swim with the sharks alone. Your grandmother would skin me alive if she were still here.”

I laugh, a twinge of sadness mixing with merriment. She would have, but unfortunately, she passed away not long ago, and man, do I miss that ball busting woman.

He adds, “Plus, you’re like the son I never had. I need to look out for you even though you’re thirty-six and a grown ass man. God knows you’ve been missing a paternal figure in your life.”

Because my parents have never looked after me.

The words are left unsaid, but judging from the grimace on his face, he’s thinking the same thing. The old wound hidden deep beneath the layers of thousand-dollar suits aches. It’s pathetic to still feel this way about them.

“Have you seen them? Last I heard, they were in Lyon for their fourth, no fifth wedding vows renewal.” After another public spat that landed in the headlines: “Trouble in Vaughn paradise…again? Lovers’ spat got ugly in France.”

It was only the tip of the iceberg for what we had to put up with growing up in the Vaughn household. The embarrassment I had to face at school growing up, knowing gossip about my parents was plastered on the front pages of newspapers. I’d force myself to smile at my classmates, pretending I didn’t give a shit. The painful reality of being invisible to the two people who were supposed to love you more than anything else in the world because Peter and Martha Vaughn’s lives only revolved around themselves.

Some would say we were neglected. Abandoned. Left to starve for emotional connection. I’d say fuck them and fuck emotions. That’s what made Peter and Martha the way they are.

I swirl the contents of my tumbler and stare at the amber liquid. Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.

“Charles, you know your parents. Utterly wrapped up and besotted with each other. I’m sure they miss and care about you guys.”

I snort. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Ian drops the subject. “This goes unsaid, but you’re doing your best with the company. Better than I could’ve done in your shoes.” There’s an uncharacteristic hardness in his tone, but when I look up, he shrugs nonchalantly. He’s probably feeling guilty for not being in the family business.

“It’s fine. The world would be deprived of your art if you worked at the bank. And I like work.” Most of the time. I enjoy the numbers and analytics. Meeting new people I’m usually fine with.

Smiling at the fake shit spewing out from their lips?

The bane of my existence.

“ Fy machgen , don’t be too hard on yourself.”

My boy. In our ancestral tongue. “It’s been years since you called me that, and I still can’t speak Welsh. I’m also a few years shy of forty, so I don’t think ‘boy’ describes me anymore.”

He harrumphs. “You’ll always be a boy in my eyes.”

A lump forms in my throat as I stare at him—visions of my childhood spent going to the ballet with him and Firefly, late nights watching old movies in the empty estate as Liam and Firefly bicker nearby, trips to the zoo—all things my parents instead of Ian should’ve done with us.

“You would’ve been a good father. Why didn’t you ever settle down?” I ask.

He stiffens before letting out a sigh. “This and that. Life is unpredictable that way. You win some, you lose some, Charles.” He takes a sip from his tumbler.

“But aren’t you lonely?”

Ian laughs and shakes his head. “I’m fifty-two years old and trust me, I get plenty of company.” Leaning forward, he frowns at me. “The question is, Charles, why are you alone?”

I clutch my drink in a death grip as a barrage of emotions assault me—anger, resentment, bitterness, too many for me to name.

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that volatile emotions have no use in my life.

I don’t answer him.

Or perhaps I don’t want to have an answer for him.