Page 52 of Burned By Sin
Luckily, things have sort of smoothed out. We’ve managed to avoid all of the gossip being published online and the reporters waiting at the bottom of my pathway. That is, until a knock sounds. I ignore it, figuring one of those pests has become impatient enough to grow a pair of balls. It sounds again and again, each time doubling in intensity. Soon, the pounding threatens to take the door off its hinges.
Addy looks across the open plan rooms, her eyes filling with worry as they lock with mine. Harper senses the shift in the air too, her head popping up and hunting for the vibrations she can feel through the floor and sofa. Whoever it is has disturbed my girl’s peace, and I won’t stand for that.
Unsheathing a butcher’s knife from the block, I storm down the hallway, intent on giving those reporters something to really write about. In this case, an obituary. My bare feet are silent against the wooden floorboards. I glance through the narrow frosted panel beside the door, but all I see is a tall shadow in a long coat. Gripping the knife’s handle tight, I throw the door wide open and hold it to the neck of a man who has the same icy blue eyes as I do. My father’s gaze flicks down then back up to my face, not a hint of surprise crossing his features.
“I hardly think that’s necessary,” he states coldly. Stepping throughme, his hand knocks my numb one aside as he invades my hallway. The door behind him stays open, a clear indicator that he’s not staying.
My mouth hangs open, a chill of trepidation causing my spine to go rigid. It’s usually this way when I see him, but something about him being here, in my domain and close to Harper has my throat closing in on me. Dressed in a black wool coat, I glimpse the immaculate dark suit underneath. Straightening his tie with fingerless leather gloves, my father doesn’t blink as he scans the area. His gaze skims me, from my wrinkled T-shirt to my sweatpants and bare feet, and a snarl of disgust curls his top lip.
“Make yourself presentable. We’re having dinner.” I just about resist flinching, the cutting sound like shrapnel slicing through the small presence of calm I’d managed to find here.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I rasp out. Realizing my head is slightly inclined, I shoot back upright and paint a look of indifference across my face. A skill I’ve learned from the man before me. My father doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes flicker past my shoulder, toward the living room where Harper and Addy are sitting. I side step to block his view, remembering that we’re the same height now. I’m no longer that timid little boy he can look over and pretend doesn’t exist.
“This isn’t up for negotiation. The car will wait for twenty minutes.” Turning on his heel, my father stops in the doorway and looks over his shoulder, his tone remaining flat. “And you’re bringing the girl.”
My blood burns, every vicious retort I should have spat now coming to mind. It’s too late. He’s halfway down the path, flashes of cameras assaulting him from every angle until he slides into the black limousine. A small hand touches mine and this time, I do flinch and instantly hate myself for it. Every. Damn. Time. I’m reverted back to a person I’ve spent years running from. Harper apologizes, as if she could do anything to wrong me, and I pull her into my arms. The edge of her receiver presses against my bicep and I sigh.
“You’re not coming,” I hiss sharply. Harper doesn’t even react, although her stubbornness is palpable. “You’re not ready.”
Releasing her, I walk up the stairs with obligation making each step heavier. I only have myself to blame. If I was focused, my father would be under a mountain of debt and scrutiny by now. As it stands, he’s as arrogant and powerful as ever, which is the only reason I enter my bedroom to shower and change. If he has his sights set on Harper, then I need to play along and keep him distracted.
As standard though, Harper has her own ideas. By the time I thump back down the stairs like a man walking to his own noose, she’s waiting there in a dress I’ve never seen before. It’s soft blue, the color of summer rain, slipping down her frame in a way that’s both elegant and unintentional. The neckline dips just enough to reveal the faintest curve of her collarbones, her skin glowing against the delicate fabric.
Her hair is swept up and pinned with a few loose strands curling around her cheeks, and her makeup is light. Her eyes appear impossibly wide, her lips flushed a gentle rose. She looks like she belongs in my father’s world far more comfortably than I do. I stutter to a stop, my brain strangling to catch up.
“How the hell,” I frown. Surely I didn’t take that long in the shower. “Where did you even get that?” I gesture to her dress. Harper takes great pleasure in my reaction.
“Most people just say, wow you’re stunning,” she smiles knowingly. If I hadn’t seen her moping around for the past few days, I’d never believe this is the same girl who was shaking in my arms after the fire.
“It’s Addy’s,” Harper answers my initial question, brushing her hands down her front and smoothing out visible creases. The girl in question is back to her sketchbook but throws up a deuce with her fingers. I drag a hand down my face and sigh, the fight bleeding out of me.
“You don’t have to do this,” I plead, quickly losing the will to fight.
“You’re not facing him alone. Not after everything he’s done.”Harper lifts her chin, defiant as ever. Damn, I respect her so much for that.
She’d walk straight into the lion’s den just to stand beside me. I want to tell her no, that I can handle my father’s games on my own, but the truth is selfish and clawing at my chest. I don’twantto go without her. The idea of walking into one of my father’s orchestrated ambushes alone makes my stomach twist. At least if she’s there, I’ll remember what I have to fight for.
“Fine,” I mutter, shoving my hands into my smart trouser pockets. “But stay close. Don’t say anything unless I tell you to.” Harper’s lips quirk with faint amusement, and the dread spirals in my gut. This is already a terrible idea.
“You say that like I’m good at taking orders. Speaking of which,” her eyes flick to the top of the stairs beyond my head. I turn, and immediately regret looking. Clayton is striding down, his hair damp and slicked back, and he’s wearing one of my suits. One of mytailoredsuits. The seams strain across his shoulders, his tie crooked, and the pants button looks like it’s about to ping off and take my eye out. I stare at him, dumbfounded for a long moment.
“You’re not invited.”
“Not by you,” Clayton tugs at his cuff. Striding past me, he wraps an arm around Harper’s waist, the pair looking like they’re running for prom king and queen. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I don’t even have it in me to argue. Screw it, let’s just get this over with.
The restaurant is one of those places my father uses to remind the world he doesn’t eat with the commoners. That he’s above all others. Glass walls and gold lighting surround the table we had to be moved to when my father realized our party size had doubled. Waiters in crispuniforms glide between tables like trained shadows, a pianist in the corner playing a classical piece. The notes are delicate, almost afraid to be heard by the elite who dine in their midst.
Curling a hand around a crystal glass of wine that’s probably older than I am, I glance around the table. Harper is by my side, my father directly ahead and Clayton to his right. Brave man. Let’s hope the scallops aren’t overdone tonight, or Clayton might find himself in the firing line of a plate being smashed onto the white tablecloth.
“You’ve caused quite the stir, son,” my father says finally, setting down his own glass. His voice cuts through the low murmur of other diners like a polished knife. “Reporters camping outside your house. The university board calling me twice a day. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to embarrass me.” His tone is calm, almost conversational, but his intention is venomous. It’s all a dance with him, careful placements of words, precise flicks of his wrist, every breath measured to the rhythm of his intention.
Harper’s hand twitches in her lap, twisting into the fabric of the dress. She needs to be careful not to seethe so openly. I catch her knuckles beneath the table, squeezing in silent reassurance.
“I’m not responsible for your reputation,” I reply coolly and somewhat ironically. In fact, I’ve made it my life’s mission to fuck with my father’s reputation, but it’s too soon for him to know that. My comment earns me the smallest lift of his eyebrow, the sort of restrained reaction he saves for moments when he’s mildly amused by my defiance. The same expression he used when I was a kid and accidentally bled on one of his Persian rugs.
“Perhaps the company you keep is unfamiliar with the legacy you are due to inherit. You can have your fun, your tattoos and your women,” he flicks a careless hand at Harper and I grit my teeth, “but when we’re facing a public scandal, I’m afraid I must intervene.”
Ahh, so this is about the video. Not the fact that Harper nearly died, or that someone is terrorizing the three of us. All that matters is the squeaky clean appeal our last name has to those who are on theoutside looking in. I don’t get to voice any of these thoughts, as Harper straightens her back and speaks with distinct clarity.
