Page 18 of Liars and Liaisons

My mother pulls away from Aiden with a sigh, shooting me a look. “Can we please try to get along for more than five minutes? For once? There are paparazzi outside, you know, just waiting for an opportunity to expose the James family as the dysfunctional mess the public thinks we are.”

“Dysfunctionalis one word for it,” Aiden mutters.

“Don’t worry, Mother.” I bend down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, all while keeping my eyes on my father. Just so he knows I’m not finished—we aren’t finished. “I’ll head out.”

She gripes about me leaving, but inevitably lets me go. I shove my hands in my pockets and stroll to the door, feeling my father’s gaze heavy on my shoulders. Somehow, he makes it to the exit before me, and he grabs my shoulder as I try to pass through without incident.

Deep, rigid lines crease his face as he glares at me.

I yank my arm from his grasp. “Careful, Father. I’m not as young and frail as I used to be. Push me around now, and I might just rip out your tongue.”

“Don’t threaten me,” he spits, leaning in so his angry red face is all I see. “You stay away from that girl, Grayson.”

A grin graces my lips. “What girl?”

“Oh, don’t play games with me. You know exactly what I’m talking about, and if you hadn’t disappeared with her before I could catch you, I’d have kicked you out on your ass in front of the entire gala last night.”

“Why, so Nathaniel could disappoint her instead?”

He jabs my shoe with the walking stick. “I mean it. I didn’t allow you to go play ghost in Duris so you could screw up our family. Get it together, stop antagonizing your brother, and get your dumb ass back to New York. I’m tired of your goddamn pity parties, not to mention your actual parties. Thank fuck no one wound up dead last night, like they normally do.”

A part of me wonders if he realizes he’s talking to his fully grown child the way you speak to a toddler or maybe even a dog, and then clarity hits—he’s doing it on purpose.

Everything Ezekiel James has ever done has been precise, thorough, and calculated. It’s why he rules the music industry, why I strive so hard to be his opposite, and why Sydney is dead.

Dead and not ever coming back.

And I think, if not for her, maybe I’d listen. Go back to my penthouse in the city, make my commute to the university three times a week, and teach undergrads the importance of music theory and cohesive composition. Maybe I’d win another Academy Award for a score in a documentary or find new talent for Aiden’s record label.

But that’s hard to commit to when I haven’t written anything in weeks. Have scarcely touched an instrument, much less long enough to compose.

Because of him and Nathaniel and all the others like them.

The ones who don’t give a shit if they snuff out dreams, so long as they get whatever it is they want in the end.

So, I simply turn away from my father and ignore him completely.

* * *

Several days pass,and the ghosts of my home once again become my best companions. Priya stops by to berate me a couple of times, though she mostly comes to check on the housekeepers, Willow and Micah. As if I were some sort of monster who’d deprive the girls of food or salary rather than ensure they were properly cared for.

Even if they aren’t permitted to roam the grounds alone. They’re also not supposed to venture down the mountain but once or twice a week, which is why they flood the foyer when Priya shows up, taking the phone data cards and fresh-baked goods she brings from New York.

They aren’t prisoners per se. Not like me. I just prefer to know where my staff is at all times.

After the gala, I spend every night poring over countless texts and sheet books, looking for something familiar that I can waste a few minutes on.

Justsomethingthat might spark even a bit of creativity before I lose my mind entirely.

The longer I stay holed up here, staring at the fire until I see my former student’s mangled face, the more invested I become in my family’s demise.

When I’m not glaring at the fire, I’m thinking ofher—long hair that shines like tumbled obsidian, lips that look like delicious red apples and somehow taste of them too.

I’m thinking of the files I’ve found on her. The debt procured in her name that seems inordinate for a twenty-five-year-old woman.

She has family in North Carolina, and she speaks to her mother several times a week. The calls last hours, and if I were to tap into the line, I’m certain they’d be filled with laughter and warmth, the likes of which I can’t fathom.

My relationship with my mother, though decent, has always been strained.

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