Page 76 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Is there a problem, sir?” Zander’s voice sounds completely innocent, but the lift of his eyebrow and the tension in his jaw say, Try me. I have no problem making a scene.
My father refuses to acknowledge Zander or the words he’s spoken. “How dare you let this grease monkey touch you when you’re a married woman?”
At that, I’m quickly transported back to my teenage years. To the endless criticisms over whom I was and was not allowed to hang out with. To the genuine friends I lost, who were replaced with shells of parent-pleasing kids afraid to be themselves. Afraid to step out of their carefully constructed lines. And I’m so flustered and rattled that I don’t have a clear enough head to wonder why he referred to Zander as a grease monkey, because the tears burn in the back of my throat, his words ring in my ears, and Zander’s fingers tense on my leg.
But it’s not until he gets that gloating hint of a smile on his lips . . . the one I’ve seen countless times as he prepared to screw over a competitor and seal the deal through some type of unscrupulous means . . . that I regain my courage. Distance is the only reason I can recognize it now. The only way I’m able to see once and for all that the man who was supposed to kiss my scrapes and hold my hand through the death of my mother was more interested in manipulation and his success.
It hurts like a bitch. The truth often does. And I’ve known this, but I think when I see the smirk that I’ve seen countless times from him, it really hits home.
So I grab on tight to the knowledge. Push down the hurt that resurfaces. And use both to my advantage.
“I’m not married, Father. I can do whatever I please with whomever I please.” My voice is soft but sure despite what feels like a bowling ball pressing on my chest.
“Casters don’t divorce, Gertrude.”
I cringe at the mantra I’ve heard countless times. The obligation he threw in my face the one time I confronted him about Ethan’s cruelty. “You’re wrong. This Caster did.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Ethan still loves you—”
“Love?” By this point I’m practically shrieking. My mind scrambles, trying to recall any ounce of emotion during my marriage.
“Yes. He loves you and therefore will not sign the paperwork. Your marriage isn’t over. He and I talked and came to an agreement. We let you have this respite before coming to collect you. But now your vacation is over. It’s time to come home.”
Heat rushes over me. His words feel like a knife scraping over my skin. The memories of all the ways my father would exert his stifling control had started to fade in the time I’d been away. Now I’m reminded how he must have control over everything in his life. People included. His daughter especially.
My hands fist into my napkin. “An agreement?” I grit out as the anger makes it hard for me to concentrate on the topic at hand without throwing in every single wrong that has transpired. “My life is not an agreement. It’s not something you and Ethan get to discuss and barter over while I stand by in silence. My marriage, on the other hand, was an agreement. One between Ethan and me, and frankly, it is none of your business. It is over—dead, done—whether you and Ethan like it or not. I filed a request to enter default over a month ago when he refused to accept the paperwork, as is my right. The divorce will finalize whether he signs it or not.”
My father tsks at my tone and gives me a dismissive roll of his eyes. I should be used to his blatant disregard, and maybe before I would have let it pass, but not now. Not the new Getty Caster.
“And there will be no collecting of me. I am not a stray dog or a helpless child. I am a grown woman who you’ve controlled for too long, and that stops now. I have a right to go or stay or do as I please. Neither you nor Ethan owns me.”
He takes his time sipping his wine, rolling the liquid around on his tongue to mask his fury over my unexpected disobedience. “Haven’t you disgraced this family enough?”
“Disgraced?” I whisper angrily. “Half of all marriages end in divorce. Caster or not.” My shoulders hurt, the tension so tight in them my head aches.
“You’ve made your point, Gertrude.” He huffs out a breath—the sound so full of disdain it feels like it’s coating my skin.
“My point?” I scoff. “I know you chose to come to a public place to keep the dramatics to a minimum. To try to control the situation. Thinking I wouldn’t dare attract attention by raising my voice, because society ladies don’t cause scenes, now, do they, Gertrude?” I mock in his tone, mimic his expressions, the ones I’ve memorized over my lifetime.
“You’re acting like a spoiled child. It’s time you stop this charade of being Little Miss Independent and come back to your family.”
“No.”
“Do. Not. Test. Me. Gertrude.”
Zander’s fingers tense on my leg at the sound of my father’s hinted threat. “Or what?” My voice is just as even and spiteful as his. I’ve shocked myself by now at the conviction with which I speak to my father.
With perfect timing, the waiter appears and sets salads down in front of us. “Thank you,” my father says stiffly, although by the expression on his face and his rigid mannerisms, it’s clear he thought I would acquiesce to his demands without much of a fight.
“Ah . . . let me guess? The gentleman ordered already for everyone?” Zander says sarcastically, noticing something my scattered mind has overlooked.
“Yes,” the waiter says cautiously, his eyes looking to each of us in turn, noticing the obvious tension at our table.
“Control at its finest,” Zander says with a laugh and a shake of his head, leveling a challenge at my father with his glare. I may be a ball of bundled nerves, but there is something comforting—a relief almost—in knowing that I’m not the only one going head-to-head with my father tonight. I’m not alone. And I can’t remember the last time I didn’t feel like I was alone.
Maybe since my mother died.
My shaky inhalation goes unnoticed because Z
