Page 87 of Fall For Me
But Peyton’s not done.
“The projections back Liam’s strategy,” she continues, her tone gaining heat. “The data studies confirm it will be a success. Every metric we’ve analyzed supports the shift toward local curation over an e-commerce expansion. And if you spent a little less time being so full of yourself and convinced of yourown brilliance, you might actually see what an amazing son you have.”
My heart jumps into my throat. No one talks to my father like that. No one. Not the board members who’ve known him for decades, not the executives who report to him, not even my grandfather, who built the company Charles now runs. And certainly not anyone who wants to stay in his good graces.
But Peyton isn’t finished.
“Liam works himself to the point where it’s unhealthy to impress you.” Her voice rises, gaining a fierce, protective edge that digs its claws into my chest. “Maybe if you offered a kind word every once in a while instead of constant criticism and condescension, you’d realize how lucky you are to have him running the company.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Peyton says, still sounding worked up, “I have to get back to work.”
I jump backward, ducking into the adjoining conference room just as she storms out. Through the gap in the door, I watch her march down the hallway, shoulders squared, curls bouncing with each aggressive step. She’s so consumed by her own righteous fury that she doesn’t even glance in my direction.
I stand frozen in the empty conference room, my heart doing complicated and painful twists in my chest like it needs to rearrange itself around this new reality.
No one has ever stood up for me to Charles Rockwood. Not even Lila, who’s known me since we were kids and has witnessed every dismissal, every disappointment, every moment when I fell short of his impossible standards.
I take a breath. Then another.
I give myself a ten-count. Then I walk casually into my office.
My father stands by the window, his back to me as he contemplates the lake.
“Hi, Dad.” I keep my voice light. “How can I help you?”
Charles turns.
And the look on his face stops me cold.
It’s strange. Unfamiliar. An expression I’ve rarely seen directed at me: respect. Maybe even a hint of awe.
He doesn’t mention Peyton or the conversation I overheard. Instead, he clears his throat and says, “I’ve been hearing great things about the new strategy.”
I blink. Wait for the other shoe to drop.
“The preliminary reports are promising,” he continues, his jaw working as if the words cost him. “You’ve done solid work building out the metrics framework.”
I stare at him. This is not how our conversations go. This is not how he speaks to me.
Then, after a beat of hesitation, he adds, “I’m proud of you, son.”
I rock back on my heels, wait for the punchline. The caveat. The “but you could do better” that follows any scrap of approval he tosses my way.
It doesn’t come.
My father moves toward the door, and I think that’s it. The conversation is over. He gave me the rarest of gifts—unreserved praise. We should quit while we’re ahead.
But Charles stops at the threshold. Turns back.
I brace myself. Now the criticism will come. The note about Peyton’s insubordination, her lack of respect, her failure to show proper deference to the patriarch of the Rockwood empire.
Instead, he says, “Your wife is a remarkable woman.”
I go very still.
“She’s the kind of partner a man is lucky to find.”
He leaves.
