Page 81 of Discretion at Its Finest

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” he asked sharply.

Raymond stepped closer to me. I could see the rage simmering under his skin.

“When she needed you,” he continued calmly, “you were absent. When the board needed leadership, you deflected. When this company was hemorrhaging, you denied it… When she needed you, Gregory… where were you? Hmmm? Working late? Staying behind at the office and doing what exactly?”

My jaw clenched, his accusatory eyes glaring daggers into my soul. I answered, “Working.”

“Drinking,” he corrected. “Avoiding. Making decisions that could jeopardize everything we worked towards… You want to talk about humiliation?” he went on. “I’ve spent the last three years explaining your mistakes away. Apologizing for your oversights. Reassuring investors that my son isn’t incompetent.”

I narrowed my eyes as he let out a bitter scoff. “And Reid walks back in and does in weeks what you couldn’t do in years.”

“And I’m sure you’re grateful he came back,” I pressed, stepping toward him. “Grateful the bastard son you shoved out the door is now saving your legacy.”

My father tapped on the newspaper, the smaller headline I’d ignored initially now in the light. “You have more important things to worry about than Reid fixing your mistakes… and I’m not going to be the one to pull you out of this mess.”

His eyes said enough, scrutinizing me without uttering another word.

But even as he stared, I realized what he already knew. The article didn’t just expose Genevieve with Reid. It exposed me with Cheryl. It showed the world what I’d chosen.

My father’s eyes glared daggers before he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

My gaze dropped to the glass in my hand. The amber sloshing inside of it. The amount of times I’d poured myself a glass wouldn’t drown the noise. It was useless, pathetic.

Just like you.

I hurled it across the room.

The crystal shattered against the far wall, exploding into shards that skittered across the floor. Amber liquid splashed, dripping down the wall in slow, ugly trails.

My chest heaved.

I swept my arm across the desk, papers flying, folders hitting the floor. Projections crumpled under my shoe as I kicked the chair back hard enough that it slammed into the credenza.

“Fuck!” I shouted, the word tearing out of me raw and uncontained.

I grabbed another glass and threw it too. It hit the window and cracked, not enough to break through, but enough to spiderweb across the surface.

My hands curled into fists so tight my nails bit into my palms.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

I was fucking losing it.

My eyes dropped to the mess on the desk, then to the photo frame near the edge.

Cheryl and the baby, Marissa.

She’d insisted I keep it there.So she feels included.Like that was the problem. Like the problem wasn’t the child wedged into the middle of a life already collapsing. And that everything I touched kept turning into something I couldn’t control.

I turned the frame face down hard. Could’ve sworn I heard the glass and wood crack under the force, but that didn’t matter.

I stood there for a moment, lungs still heaving, the room wrecked around me.

And slowly my thoughts started to line up.

Of course nothing made sense.