Page 67 of The Billionaire and His Forever

Everything is exactly the same, of course. But I still feel like I don’t belong.

I let Mom lead me into the dining room, where Dad is sitting at the table with his glasses on, reading something on his tablet. When I say hello, he barely spares me a glance and only grunts in response. The tension in the room is so thick, I practically have to wade in it to get to the place setting my mom laid out for me. But instead of the two of them positioned at opposite heads of the table, per usual, it’s me and Mom sitting side by side, across from Dad. Interesting.

Mom brings out all the dishes as Dad continues to ignore me, and after our drinks are poured—sweet tea for me and Mom, more whiskey for Dad—Mom bows her head to say grace.

Dad and I stare each other down as she does, neither of us ever having been particularly religious. When she finishes, I reach for the biscuits, but Dad snatches them up first.

“We need to discuss our plan of action going forward,” he says, loading up his plate and handing each dish to Mom afterward, completely skipping over me.

“Whatever it is, I’m not getting involved,” I say flatly.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” he snaps. “You’ve already proven yourself a failure.”

“Ford,” Mom warns.

“It’s the truth. She’s ruined our family name. She spent her entire summer fucking off, and she’s got nothing to show for her time away but a criminal record and a nasty reputation.”

“Her name was cleared,” Mom says, her voice icy. “Eat your greens.”

Wow. I have never in my life heard my mother speak to my father like this. Sure, I’ve heard them fight, but those fights usually consist of my dad yelling and accusing, and my mom crying and trying to explain herself. But this outright sassiness? It makes me proud.

She must really be pissed at him for keeping me and her apart all summer. It doesn’t escape me how hard it must be for her to go against the way she was raised in the South, either—her parents groomed her from birth to be sweet, demure, soft-spoken, obedient. To smooth away conflict, not partake in it. To be the perfect trophy wife.

Maybe her priorities have changed.

Dad just snorts and turns his cruel gaze back to me. “You might not have tried to kill Natasha, but everyone knows you’re the little homewrecker who broke up her marriage.”

“They were already divorced,” I protest.

“They were in the midst of reconciling,” Dad insists.

I frown. “That was just for show. It was damage control. A PR stunt. You know this.”

“That’s not the point.” He spreads an obscene amount of butter across his biscuit and I can only hope he chokes on it. “It’s all about public perception, Abbie—and the perception is, you’re a whore.”

Mom’s fork hits her plate with a clatter so loud, it makes me jump.

“Don’t youdarecall my daughter that name.” Her voice is steely. The claws are out. “If you can’t be civil, you can leave the table.”

Dad cocks a brow at her and stuffs a forkful of shrimp and grits in his mouth. He seems annoyed at her, but not shocked. I wonder just how long they’ve been fighting like this.

The irony is, my dad is sitting here calling me a whore, but he’s the one who sent me to seduce Graham in the first place. Which, technically I succeeded at, albeit temporarily. I’m dying to say as much out loud, to spill to my mom thatheput me up to it, but I don’t want to poke the bear. I just want to make it out of this dinner in one piece, and not upset my mom any more than she already is.

As we eat in chilly silence, Mom’s amazing comfort food tasting like ash in my mouth, I feel her give my hand a quick squeeze of solidarity under the table. It’s the kind of squeeze that says, “We’re going to get through this.” Thank God school is starting soon, and I won’t have to deal with this shit outside of semester breaks and big holidays. Unless the people at Cornell end up being as bad as my father.

Maybe I should change my name. Or drop out. There’s no way everyone won’t know who I am and what I was accused of…those rumors are going to follow me around campus until I graduate. Can I even handle three more years of gossip and shit talk? Will Amanda be able to protect me from it? Will anyone even care about the truth? What if this follows me after I get my degree? For the rest of my life, even?

Fuck. Maybe my dad is right. Maybe public perception is the only thing that matters.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings, interrupting my brooding. I wonder if Amanda’s intuition led her back here to rescue me.

Mom all but jumps out of her seat. “I’ll get it.”

“Sit your ass down,” Dad says through a mouthful of grits.

“IsaidI’ll get it,” Mom shoots back, storming out of the room.

A moment later she reappears, her cheeks flushed. In the hallway, following after her, is—holy fucking hell.

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