Roman cuts his chop, dipping it in the green goo before he hesitates. “Cecelia, I’m aware I’ve missed a lot—”
“Eight years,” I wipe my mouth. “Forgive me if I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here.”
“You’re in a mood tonight.”
“I’m curious.”
“I see.” His wrists rest on the edge of the table. His cutlery posed just so. The ritual makes me sick. We aren’t a family. I’m a part of his corporation.
“You’re part of my legacy. You are my only child.” No apologies for the years he’s missed. No excuses for his extended absence. Simplistic answers with no emotion behind them. I can’t even imagine Roman being intimate with anyone. Mom must have had a field day loving this bastard.
“We were discussing your parents last time we talked. Did you grow up wealthy?”
He frowns. “Somewhat.”
“Define somewhat.”
“My mother had a fair amount of money she inherited when she married my father. But they squandered their small fortune away instead of growing it and died penniless. That’s where they made their mistake.”
“Were you close?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“They were not affectionate people and do refrain from any rude comments. I’m aware some consider that a shortcoming.”
“Only people with a pulse.”
He chews his food slowly and looks at me pointedly. “My blood is red, I assure you. It’s the same blood that runs through your veins.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
“You have one sharp tongue.”
“Don’t pretend to care, Roman. Why make me a part of all this at the last minute if you really didn’t want me in your life? Why give me anything at all, if you could just write a check and be done with me?”
He slowly lifts his tumbler to his lips and takes a sip. “Maybe I have regrets on how I handled things with you.”
“Maybe?”
“I do.” He sets his glass down and presses his napkin against his mouth. “Excuse me. I have business.”
“Great talking to you, Sir.”
I’m most definitely about to start my period, and I’m sure this shark smells it. I would feel bad if it wasn’t Roman Horner on the receiving end of my attitude. But tonight, I’m over the bullshit pretense.
He pauses at the doorway and then turns to me. He waits until our eyes connect before he speaks. “I gave you my last name because I had hoped to be a father to you. One day, I realized I never would be, and the least I could do was care for you financially. I’m handing you my life’s work because of my failure. All I ask is that you play a small part. I know it doesn’t make up for it, but it’s all I’ll ever have to give you.”
“Did you love my mother?” I ask hoarsely, damning the budding emotion. “Have you ever loved anyone?”
He grimaces, his eyes fixed somewhere in the past as he stares through me. “I tried.” With that confession, he leaves me at the table.
I do my best to ignore the sting behind my eyes and the tear that falls because of it. That was it. I know it in my soul. That will be the one and only confession my father ever gives me about the way he feels about me.
After years of wondering, I finally have my answer.
He tried.
My father just admitted he didn’t love me.
I pull the tear from my face with my finger and study it. Roman Horner probably would have preferred an abortion to an heir, and he thinks an inheritance will redeem him in some fucked up way.
I smash the hope-filled tear I didn’t know I was harboring between my fingers and finally give myself permission to hate him. Just more proof that the fantasies of a masochistic heart are much better than any experience with the real thing.
With that knowledge, I retreat.
SO BE IT. IT’S BEEN days since the texts stopped, and I’m still convincing myself I’m fine with it. If Sean can’t deal with me standing my ground about his own shitty behavior, we’re already a lost cause.
I fell for every line his beautiful lips fed me. Only to feel slapped.
I caught myself just in time.
To make shitty matters worse, my plant bully has taken it upon herself to make my days more grueling, taunting me in Spanish—I can’t understand—in the breakroom and all but smashed me into the wall when we punched out last night. She’s got it in for me, and she’s making it known shift by shift. The last thing I need to do is report it to my supervisor, who I’m actively avoiding.