Page 141 of Grumpy Boss of the Year

He gives me a blank stare, but I can see the anger in his eyes. "I'll be back," he says.

I want to laugh. I want to tell him he reminds me of Arnold Schwarzenegger, but I know that this is not the right moment.

I sit back in the chair and look around the room. It's large and reminds me of something from a history book. It's long and narrow with paintings on every inch of the wall. There are thick, dark, purple velvet curtains hanging from the ceiling to the floor with wide velvet tassels. The table is a dark, solid wood with crystal glasses and sterling silver cutlery on the table.

Maria stands back as my father leaves the room and walks over to me. "Some wine?" she asks, and I shake my head.

"No, thank you."

She steps back and stands next to the door, and I wonder what she's thinking. I wonder what she knows. She's been with my father since before I was born, and I think she loves him from the way that she looks at him and from the way that she's always at his beck and call.

And sometimes, I think he loves her, too, which is crazy because he's married, even though he rarely ever sees my stepmother. In fact, I don’t even know if he knows where she is.

I pull out my phone to text Liam, but I don’t wanna seem needy, so instead, I text Skye.

"What's going on?" I wait for her to respond, but I don't hear anything. I can hear my father shouting and screaming,and I wonder if he's on the phone with Liam. My heart clenches slightly. Maybe he has changed his mind.

"You'll be okay," I mutter to myself. Self-preservation has always been something I excelled at. I've always technically been alone, looking after myself. I had to protect my feelings and be one with who I was. I learned from a young age that I couldn't really depend on anyone to be there for me, like really and truly be there for me.

Skye was there for me as a sister and loved me, but she couldn't take care of me in that way. Ultimately, I learned that the only person there for you, who could make you feel fulfilled, was yourself.

I hear loud, clicking footsteps as my father comes back to the room. He stares at his watch again. "He's late."

"I gathered that, Papa. Perhaps he's?—"

"He's coming," he says as he takes a seat. He looks over at me, and his expression changes slightly to one of tiredness, to one of… I stare at him for a couple of seconds, trying to decipher what that look on his face is. Is it love? Regret? I'm not really sure.

"You remind me so very much of your mother when she was young," he says, standing up and walking toward me. He strokes the side of my face. "So beautiful and sweet and innocent."

"I'm not very sweet, and I'm not that innocent, Dad. I hate to?—"

"She was such a delight," he says. "She and I would talk for hours and hours about any and everything. She liked to sing, you know."

"I didn't know that." I shake my head.

"She wanted to be an opera singer." He chuckles. "She wanted to take the world by storm, but I'll let you in on a little secret. She couldn't hit the notes."

"Oh."

"But I didn't tell her that, of course. I loved her. I would do anything for her. She always said to me, 'I can always count on you. I can count on you to be the man that treats me with respect, with love, with kindness, that sees me for who I truly am.'"

"I'm glad she had you, Papa."

My heart feels sad for him. I can hear the pain in his voice. I can sense how much he misses her, and in that moment, I realize that the pain I've gone through is nothing compared to the pain he's gone through.

I think about what could have been, the relationship I could have had with my mother, the love she would have given me, the life I would have known, but he sad for a life he had that he no longer does.

"She used to shout at me, you know, go crazy in the middle of the night, hit me, grab knives." He blinks. "Do things, say things."

"Oh?" I stare at him in confusion. "I didn't know that. I’m sorry."

"I didn't understand what was going on at first, you know." His eyes look wild. "Of course, I still loved her, and she loved me. She'd wake up in the morning and not even remember. Sometimes she'd have a glass of wine when we'd be out and she'd start crying or screaming at people or at me and saying she saw things or they were coming to attack her and?—"

He touches his hand to his forehead. "She was my wife, the love of my life, the mother of my beautiful only daughter." He looks at me. "She…" He grabs my hand. "She loved you more than anything. Everything she did was to protect you. Everything she made me promise in life was to protect you."

He steps back and slams his fist against the table. "Am I protecting you or?—"

The doorbell rings then, and he stops. He rubs his forehead again and straightens his shoulders. His eyes meet mine, and he nods. "He's here."

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