Page 61 of Liars and Liaisons

It’s also why I refuse to give it back.

“As you’ll see, Symposium Records shareholders grow antsy when a member of the board becomes reclusive for longer than a few weeks’ time.” Harrison points a laser around a chart my mother has projected on the wall, his shoulders squared and that damn bald spot shining bright under the lights. “Since you’re still technically on the board, though in name mostly, they’ve asked us here to ensure your interests still align with the company’s.”

“They don’t,” I deadpan, swiping at a piece of dirt on my knee. “I couldn’t give a single fuck about Symposium or any of the other labels, agencies, or talent under our management.”

“You certainly don’t seem to mind the billions you’ve raked in because of them.” My father’s beady eyes drill into me. He leans back in a black leather armchair, disapproval and disgust etched into the wrinkles on his face.

“Billionsowedto me because of my last name. Much of what I inherited is there because of Grandfather’s work, long before you and Harrison took over.”

“That’s your problem,” he snaps, disgust morphing to outright anger as his face reddens. “You think you’re owed shit just for your existence. News flash,boy: the world isn’t going to reward you when you spend all your time partying and getting high—or whatever the hell else goes on in this fucking mausoleum.”

Slowly, I swing my focus back to my oldest brother. He watches me like he isn’t exactly sure who he’s looking at anymore. “Take me off the board. I don’t care. Probably a bad business decision, keeping me on anyway when I’m a shareholder in your competition.”

When he left his father’s label, Aiden’s smaller, newer company, Orphic Productions, cut into a decent portion of Symposium’s clientele. It eats at Harrison, the same way it eats at our father.

“We can’t just do that,” he says with a shake of his head. “Removing you would mean shifting a majority into non–James family hands. I won’t jeopardize the company, not when I’ve worked so tirelessly to make it what it is.”

“In any case, the parties aren’t the problem,” Nathaniel says, glancing at Priya. “It’s the bad press that surrounds them.”

“No, the problem is theparasitewe have living in our midst, taking up residence in our family’s home and providing absolutely no contributions to our livelihood whatsoever.” My father’s index finger points in my direction. “I raised you boys to be opportunists, but also to be functioning parts of this family. If you can’t fucking do that anymore, boy, then perhaps you don’t deserve to be in it.”

White-hot rage simmers in my blood, heating my skin. I slide my gaze from his ruddy face down to where his hand cradles that golden goat head, half-daring him to cross the room and use it. For old times’ sake at least.

Give me a reason to make him pay right here, right now, instead of having to play the long game with my vengeance.

If he’d kept his own anger in check when we were all kids, perhaps my love for playing and creating music wouldn’t have fizzled so valiantly in my mid-thirties. Maybe I wouldn’t have burned out and holed up here, unable to so much as touch an instrument for weeks without thoughts of spiraling despair.

Even now, I can only do it when I think of a woman I’m not even allowed to have. Who doesn’t even want me.

If my father had been better, perhaps we all would have been. Maybe Sydney would still be here instead of rotting in the ground in a Duris cemetery while I keep her sister in my employment just to feel like I didn’t completely fail her.

At a certain point, I suppose you have to own up to your own mistakes and atone for your sins as an adult. It’s just difficult to feel like the choices made up to this point weren’t direct results of the environment I knew and understood.

A father’s anger never leaves you. It molds and shapes with its heat and volume for the rest of your life.

My mother shifts, squeezing my bicep, as if she thinks it might stop me from launching across the room and putting us all out of our misery. That’s the thing about generational trauma—so much of it could’ve been avoided if the universe had only made Ezekiel James impotent.

“Can we try to stay on track, please?” she asks, running a hand over my head the way she did when I was little and sick. “Grayson, darling, we’re simply worried about what the seclusion here is doing to your mental health. We know you haven’t been sending sheet books to your own agent or any research to the school during your sabbatical. That isn’t like you.”

I swallow over the knot in my throat, trying to ignore the tenderness of her concern. I could tell them about my recent discovery—how I’ve found a fucking muse and written three new scores in the last few days—but I don’t want them to know.

If they know, they can exploit it. Just like they did before I left the industry to teach.

Just like they did to Sydney.

Not my mother, of course. She’s as distant from all of this as I am, except when someone in the family drags her in to clean up my messes. As if she isn’t still recovering from having me at seventeen and making up for the unfortunate loss of her innocence that my existence created.

I wrap my fingers around hers, giving a gentle squeeze back. Sitting here with all of them feels like a public endeavor, and though I’ve started making music again, the desire to be where the people are has not yet returned to me.

Even now, in the comfort of my own home, I’m ignoring the anxiety clawing its way up my throat and planning an exit.

“I think we should talk more about the parties.” Nathaniel downs a drink from where he’s seated at the minibar in the corner of the room. He points the crystal tumbler in my direction, a little off-balance. “I mean, Dad mentioned them, but why is no one talking about what goes on at them? What causes the bad press? They’re hideously dripping in debauchery with people in Duris reportedly able to hear them from town. Only a certain number of people are granted admission to each one he throws, and yet slightly less than those who enter ever leave.”

“How do you know that?” my father clips.

Nathaniel shrugs. “I went to the last one to check it out. Since everyone is always so tight-lipped about them or can’t seem to remember a damn thing after.”

Four other pairs of eyes shift toward me. The remaining pair stay on Nathaniel, and I can’t help the swell of raw satisfaction in my chest at the realization that his narcissism might be his downfall after all.

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