Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
The image lingered, taunting me. Sydney smiled and a sharp pain pushed against my sternum. I missed her. I missed her so much it was painful.
I had no idea what I was doing anymore. No clear grasp on why I’d insisted on staying angry. Why I’d torpedoed the best thing that had ever happened to me. Why I’d set out to hurt her in the first place. My inability to keep a heavy hand on my pride was screwing up the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Devyn was right. I held no resentment toward my mother, and she hadn’t done anything different from Sydney. She’d never picked up the phone and told me my father was dying and time was running out.
“What if I love her?”
“Yeah, you love her so much you singlehandedly destroyed her career in a matter of days. You’re a real life Prince Charming.”
Now that the fog of war had cleared, hearing it stated plainly made me feel like a dirtbag, made me cringe in shame. I’d known exactly how to hurt her––take away what she held most dear, the only thing she had left: her career. And I’d gone after it with everything I had, hadn’t I? It was a maneuver straight out of the art of war by Frank Blackstone.
My eyes fell shut. The truth did hurt. My lungs could barely function with it. “Thanks. I didn’t think I could feel any worse.”
My sister chuckled darkly and shook her head. “Men.”
“I’m serious, Dev. I love her. I’m in love with her.”
“You have a funny way of showing it. You know what love is, Scott? I’ll tell you what love is––John was willing to uproot his entire business to move back to New York if I’d told him that I wanted to work for Dad. I have a law degree and master’s in business and I haven’t done anything with either one––”
“You have four great kids.”
“Yeah, because I have an amazing husband who gave me the choice. Who would’ve sacrificed for me the way I have for him––that’s love. What you feel is remorse.” She took another sip of her wine. “You’re just starting to figure out that you have a genuine gift for hurting people without even trying.”
I winced. “Don’t hold back.”
“You’re a big boy, you can handle it…I thought this marriage would do you good, but I can see now it’s only done her harm.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Scott
Panic began to set in shortly after Dev’s “pep talk.” I knew I needed to fix things, but I had no idea where to begin, or how. Or if it was even possible. That’s what worried me most. That I was too late.
Every time I thought about that day in Sydney’s office––the day I told her to pack her shit up and get out like she was yesterday’s trash, and she started crying––I just about died inside. She hadn’t cried at her grandmother’s house. Or in the hospital. Or when she told me about all the other horrible things that had been done to her. And yet I’d made her cry.
Meghan was right. I was the fucking Anti-Christ. And my old man would be proud. Both of those statements were true, and I didn’t care about either one.
Miller passed me in the hallway without making eye contact. He’d been giving me the silent treatment since Sydney left a month ago, which was fine by me. I was in no mood to make nice.
“Cocksucker.”
My feet came to a hard stop and I turned, ready to take all my frustration out on him. “Excuse me?”
He faced me wearing a phony as fuck innocent expression. “I said coffee, can I get you some?”
Punching an employee in the mouth would’ve earned me a nice fat lawsuit so I settled for glaring. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what I heard.”
“Then maybe you should buy a company that makes hearing–aids.”
My temper spiked. It was already on a hair trigger and this guy was pressing all the wrong buttons. “Are you trying to get fired?”
“It’s my last day. So I’m afraid that ship called satisfaction has sailed, Evil Ken.”
Evil Ken?
I turned and walked away before things got ugly, stepped into my office––my father’s office––and found my mother directing two men to take down the surrealist painting hanging behind the desk, a painting that had hung there since my father had bought the building.
“What are you doing?” I asked with barely leashed irritation.
My mother glanced over her shoulder briefly. “Oh, hi, honey. Taking my painting.”
“That painting stays in this office––with the rest of the stuff that belongs here.”
My mother took one look at me and whispered something to the men who grabbed the painting and left the room. Taking off her chunky red eyeglasses, she dropped them on the desk. Her green eyes steady on me. “This painting is mine, and it belongs with the others, in a museum for everyone to enjoy.”