“Amelia.” My father’s voice boomed, warm and familiar. “How’s my beautiful daughter and my new grandson? Are you home? Did everything go smoothly?”
The concern in his voice was my undoing.
“Daddy,” I said, my voice low and steady, despite the tremor inside. “I’m home alone with your grandson.”
“Tristan took my car to have a fine dining experience with his family.” I paused, letting the horror of the statement hang in the transcontinental silence. “Daddy, make him bankrupt.”
By tonight, the silence of the penthouse was a physical presence, thick and heavy. It was a stark contrast to the constant low-level hum of the hospital here.
The only sounds were the faint were of the climate control and the tiny snuffling breaths coming from Liam, who was finally asleep in the bassinet I’d painstakingly positioned next to the master bed.
My body achd with a deep, pervasive exhaustion, but my mind was a raging storm. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it.
The photo of the perfect scallops, the soft lighting of the restaurant, the casual cruelty of that text. “Wish you were here.”
He was probably on the dessert course by now. A postmeal cognac, perhaps, laughing with his father.
While my mother’s carefully prepared meal from Daniel sat uneaten in our Subzero refrigerator, I pushed myself off the bed, wincing at the throb of stitches.
I couldn’t just lie here. The helplessness was suffocating.
I walked a slow, shuffling gate that made me feel 80 years old into the vast minimalist living room. The floor to-seeiling windows offered a breathtaking postcard perfect view of Central Park, now twinkling with lights.
It was a view synonymous with success, with having made it. Right now, it felt like a beautifully framed picture of my own gilded cage.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table. Another message from Tristan.
This time, a selfie. He was grinning. A glass of amber liquid in his hand. His parents flanking him, their faces flushed with happiness.
The message below red, “Mom and dad say hi. Can’t wait to see you and Liam. Almost done here. Exo.”
The hypocrisy was so vast, so absolute. It shortcircuited something in my brain.
The anger that had been simmering, cold and hard, suddenly boiled over. It wasn’t just about tonight.
It was about every off-hand comment he’d made about my father’s influence. Every time he’d referred to my company as my little tech startup, the way he’d insisted on being added to investment accounts to feel more involved.
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