“You’re probably wondering why I popped in unannounced,” he says conversationally.
I nod, taking another sip.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he continues, his gaze steady on me as he brings the glass to his lips and takes a drink. “Thought I’d stop by and offer a piece of advice to my future son-in-law.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise at his ominous tone and I don’t acknowledge what he says. “Do you know where Charlotte is?”
He seems confused by my subject change. “You don’t?”
I slowly shake my head. “I don’t keep tabs on her. I work all day. I’m sure she knows how to entertain herself.”
Reginald laughs. “That’s where you’re wrong. The way women like to entertain themselves is going to spa treatments or shopping. In plain terms, they like to spend all of our fucking money.”
He laughs and I join him, though mine rings hollow. From what I can tell, Charlotte isn’t interested in shopping or going to the spa.
But I don’t know her that well, and he certainly should.
“She comes with a trust fund, you know,” he says, like no big deal.
“Don’t we all?” I’m trying to make a joke but his face is stone-cold sober.
“From what I understand, you’re bringing nothing to this marriage but your name. I’m the one doing all the heavy lifting.”
I don’t bother correcting him. It’s really Charlotte and I who are doing the brunt of the work—like getting married.
“The Lancaster name opens doors,” Reginald continues. “Doors you Constantines don’t even get to see, let alone test the handle to see if it’s locked.”
He guffaws at his own joke, but I don’t bother laughing this time around. Now he’s just being insulting to my family, though he’s not necessarily lying either.
The Lancasters can open doors we can’t. They go back generations. They are practically American pioneers. Right up there with the Rockefellers and the Vanderbilts. It’s the kind of old money Mother salivates over, wishing she were one of them.
Well, she’s about to become connected with them in a matter of weeks.
Is that why she wants me marrying Charlotte? For status alone?
“Your brother is a sharp son of a bitch,” Reginald says once his laughter dies and he takes another drink. “I like him.”
“Winston is smart,” I agree, wondering where he’s going with this.
“You anything like him?” Reginald squints at me, as if he’s really seeing me for the first time. “I did some research. A few internet searches pull up photos of you partying with pretty women.”
“That was a long time ago, sir.” I stand up straighter, smoothing my hand over my rumpled tie. “I don’t go out like that anymore, now that I’m engaged.”
“Bah.” He waves a hand, dismissing my words. “Do what you want once you make it legal. If she’s anything like her mother, Charlotte won’t protest. Just tell her to go to Chanel, or have one of those boozy lunches with her friends like her mother’s always doing.”
From what I can tell, Charlotte doesn’t have any friends. Not really.
“And that reminds me of another little tidbit of advice I need to give you. Charlotte is a girl who needs to be…tamed. She’s always acted out, ever since she was a little girl. Even went through an extreme rebellious stage after she graduated high school,” he explains.
I’m intrigued. A rebellious Charlotte? Would love to see her in action.
“Don’t we all act up at that age?”
“Us males, of course. We’re expected to. Refined young ladies from prominent families such as ours? Not so much. She had an—incident in Paris a year ago. Thank God it happened out of the country, so not many people know about it.”
“Okay.” I draw the word out, curiosity filling me, though I don’t want to ask this man for anything. Don’t know why, but I can feel it in my gut I shouldn’t trust him.
“I don’t know what she’s told you about her sexual history, but her mother turns a blind eye to it, so I’m assuming you believe she’s a virgin.”
It feels really fucking weird for me to be talking about my future wife’s sexual status with her father. “I don’t think that’s any of my business.”
Reginald chuckles into his glass before he tips his head back and drains it. “Kids these days. Your expectations are completely different from mine. When I married my wife, I fully expected her to be a virgin. Untouched. Belonging only to me. Yet all these years later, my nephew chased after the daughter of one of the biggest whores in New York City, and eventually made the woman his wife. Hell, my oldest son is involved with a woman who wasn’t promised to him. Didn’t matter what I had to say on the matter, he didn’t care. And from what I can see, your family is much the same.”
I’m over this conversation. “And your point is?”
He can hear the hostility in my tone, I’m sure. “My point is that it seems you’re the only disciplined Constantine of the bunch. While my daughter is the most undisciplined young lady I’ve ever had to witness. Trust that you’ll have your hands full with this one.”
From what I can tell, Charlotte is quiet and reserved and not much of a handful at all.
But I don’t bother arguing with him.
“I’m sure we’ll figure everything out as we go,” I say, unsure how to reply to any of the shit he’s throwing.
“Just one more word of advice.” He tilts his head toward me. “Sometimes, a woman can get a little squirrelly. She might need a bit of—discipline. And my Charlotte? She’s fine with it. Responds quite well to it if I’m being completely truthful.”
Confirmation hits me like a punch in the face and for a moment it’s like I can’t breathe.
My gut instinct was right. Her father is the one who put those bruises on her arm. How many times has he done that over the years? A couple of times? A handful? Multiple incidents even?
Thank Christ I got her out of that house when I did.
“I’m not a big fan of disciplining anyone, especially the woman who will become my wife,” I bite out, wishing I had more scotch in my glass.
Wishing more I could hurl the glass at his smug face.
Reginald goes still, his gaze trained on me. “You look angry, son.”
I don’t even bother holding back anymore. “Maybe that’s because I am.”
“I’m not saying you have to take my advice.” He grabs the bottle of scotch and splashes more into his glass, indicating with a wave of the bottle if I might want more. I shake my head, not wanting to take anything from this asshole. “Just thought I’d be helpful.”
“Appreciate your concern.” My voice is tight, as are the muscles in my entire body. I’m so fucking tense, I could probably snap in half with one touch.
He flicks his wrist, swirling the brown liquid in the glass, watching it turn for a moment, his expression contemplative. I’d give anything to kick his ass out of my apartment, but the apartment isn’t mine.
It’s his.
And the woman I’m about to marry?