Page 3 of Shattered Throne
"You've been hiding." I heard the couch creak as she adjusted her position. "Because the last time we spoke, I said something you didn't want to hear."
"You said something ridiculous," I corrected, turning to face her. "And I'm hoping if I ignore it long enough, you'll realize how insane it sounds and move on."
"Insane." She repeated the word like she was tasting it. Finding it sour. "Is that what you think?"
I laughed. "I'm twenty-eight years old. I'm not walking down the aisle because you've decided it's time."
"You're right." She rose from the couch in one fluid motion. "You're getting married because if you don't, I'm removing you from my will."
"Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"
"I want you to grow up. I want you to become the man I know you're capable of being. But you're so determined to be nothing but charm and parties and empty evenings with women whose names you can't remember."
"Her name was Bianca."
"Was it?"
I hesitated. "Brianna?"
My grandmother's expression didn't change. “Do as I say, Xavier… or you can kiss your trust fund goodbye.”
I set down my glass. "You're bluffing."
The look she gave me could have frozen the Hudson solid. Her chin lifted slightly. Her eyes narrowed. And the temperature in the room dropped by about ten degrees.
"Am I?"
She pulled out her phone. Dialed. Put it on speaker. Then, "Mrs. Dubois. How can I help you this evening?"
"Gerald. I need you at Xavier's apartment. Immediately."
"Of course. I'll be there in ten minutes."
She ended the call. I stared at her.
Gerald Morrison. Her attorney. The bald, round man had been handling the family’s legal affairs since before I was born. I'd seen him at every family gathering for as long as I could remember, lurking at the edges with his leather briefcase, looking like someone's uncomfortable uncle. He had to be pushing seventy-five by now.
And apparently, he made house calls.
"You called the lawyer," I said slowly. "To my apartment. At eleven o'clock at night."
"I did."
"And he's just... coming? Right now?"
"Gerald understands the importance of being available when needed." She settled back onto the couch, smooth as a queen returning to her throne. "A quality you might consider cultivating."
I picked up my whiskey again. Drained it. Poured another.
The minutes crawled by. I stood at the window, watching the city lights blur and refocus, trying to convince myself this was still a bluff.
My grandmother was dramatic. She always had been. She'd make her point, Gerald would shuffle some papers around, and then they'd both leave, and I could call B-something back and salvage what was left of my evening.
The doorbell rang.
Gerald Morrison walked into my apartment like this was perfectly normal. He nodded at my grandmother. Nodded at me. Settled into the armchair across from the sofa with his ancient leather briefcase balanced on his knees.
"Mrs. Dubois." He pulled out an actual leather-bound notebook. Who still used those? "Shall we proceed?"
