Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 121946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Don’t read into it.
It’s the same old bullshit, just a different day.
Dad knows this is the best time to reach me, and he told his lawyer that.
He knows no one is here but me. Not much has changed since I used to work for him.
The phone rattles again. There’s something desperate to the sound of a call while the city sleeps. Almost eerie.
This time, I unplug the cord to the landline. The ensuing silence blankets me. I pretend, for a moment, my father never sold his soul. Or try to. The past is so far removed from where we’re at, and I can no longer grasp it.
In his glory days, my father ran one of the most successful hedge funds in the city. Fuck city—he ran one of the largest funds in the world.
He made a lot of men very rich.
Made a lot of people very poor, too, as a direct result.
I’m not sure how it happened. One day, he could hop on a private jet to Saint Tropez for a quick dip in the ocean. The next, he couldn’t even afford an economy-class ticket to Florida. He lost it all.
Not just his money, either. Desperate to refill his coffers, he entered an underground poker game, sold his soul to the devil, and became a monster.
Raising my head, I pull at the roots of my hair and force the thought out of my head. The bitter aftertaste lingers, lacing with the scent of the office. Where traces of his betrayal seep into every inch, every second, every decision.
I still run a hedge. But instead of just getting money from trust-fund babies, I also house money for the scariest motherfuckers out there.
In the end, I ended up being no better than the man I hate.
Unlike him, I can sleep at night with my choices.
Which is ironic, since at the moment, I can’t relax, no matter how hard I try. The phone call from his lawyer stirred the pot I have long tried to forget.
I push up out of my chair and head to my private bathroom to throw on sweats, a T-shirt, and sneakers.
Going for a run will clear my brain.
This always happens whenever my shit of a father reaches out.
And like clockwork, he always does.
I take the private elevator that leads to the ground floor and nod to the doorman on duty on my way out of the building.
My feet hit the pavement, each step leading me farther from my office. Once they cross over Fifth Avenue and into the park, I’m off to a sprint, pushing myself at a speed that can’t be healthy.
The air against my face steadies me.
The adrenaline surprisingly calms my nerves.
I’m not sure how long I run, but my feet finally stop moving. The moment has come that I need to deal with the shitstorm that’s probably waiting for me. I turn to head back. The sun has risen past the horizon.
The only priority should be to make some fucking money and forget how this day started.
I’m only a block away from my building when my cell phone vibrates in my pocket.
Now it’s my mother.
“Mom,” I answer.
I should probably be nicer. It’s not like I’m in the habit of being a dick to my mother, but I have a good feeling I know why she’s calling, and I want nothing to do with it. Nor do I understand why she even bothers trying after everything.
My mom did divorce him, thank fuck.
But for some reason unbeknownst to me (and trust me, I’ve tried to understand for the sake of my sanity), she kept his last name, sends him gift baskets in jail like he’s there for a fucking birthday party, and still goes to bat for him when I refuse to talk to him.
Life is too short to hold on to animosity.
Her words. Not mine. And a big, fat lie. Inevitably followed by the same cheesy we-are-the-world bullshit.
“Give yourself permission to move on. A flower can only bloom if it feels the warmth of the sun.”
Fuck that.
I’d take a part-time job as Charon just to ferry my father into the depths of hell. And even that wouldn’t be enough to redeem him. An eternity of punishment is still not adequate for his crimes against my family.
“Hi, sweetie.” Her voice is clear, but it lacks her normal, cheerful tone. It sounds somber.
At one point, I didn’t expect to hear any joy when she spoke. That was when life had beaten her down. Guess that warmth-of-the-sun shit worked because she blossomed, gardening in her spare time and harassing me with the rest of it.
“Are you calling to talk about Dad?”
“Trent—”
“Let me stop you and tell you the same thing I told his lawyer. He’s been dead to me since he tried to sell off Ivy. There is legit nothing you can say that will make me speak to him. It’ll never hap—”