**THIS BOOK IS ON HOLD UNTIL I'M DONE WRITING LOVE CONSEQUENCES** Linda Baxter's trust fund makes life easy, but she learned that things in pretty packages are not worth her time. By twenty-nine, she tried marriage, fabricated a fake relationship, a...
Ups! Tento obrázek porušuje naše pokyny k obsahu. Před publikováním ho, prosím, buď odstraň, nebo nahraď jiným.
Ups! Tento obrázek porušuje naše pokyny k obsahu. Před publikováním ho, prosím, buď odstraň, nebo nahraď jiným.
Father's home office hasn't changed in the twenty-nine years of my life. The furniture here is from his father, who got it from his father. And would've gone to my father's son if he had any. Not being born a boy was the first disappointment I doled out to my family.
I prop myself on the edge of the eighteenth century antique chair my grandma imported from France that she assured everyone once decorated the halls of Versailles. I squeeze my knees together and put additional duct tape over the still simmering pot of rage that propelled me out of the event last night.
Several major outlets picked up the news of B-Art this morning. The high-quality PR firm Brenda must've hired is hard at work, and Father must know of her venture by now. Probably knew all along, because his precious baby BB does nothing without his blessing.
"Glad you showed up without me sending an envoy to retrieve you." He doesn't pretend to be a nice, jovial guy with me. That role he leaves for the public. "Do you know why I invited you home?"
"Invited?" I don't flinch away from Father's mossy green eyes, both Brenda and I inherited. "Home?"
Father insists on playing the game, where he ignores the fact that I've been living in Chicago for the past ten years. Nothing in his luxury penthouse—but for my favorite balcony that overlooks Central Park and Fifth Avenue—tugs at my heartstrings. My tongue would fuse itself to the roof of my mouth before I call his place home.
Former prison cell? Maybe.
But that does not a home make.
"Here you go with your attitude." Father rolls backward in his leather chair and throws his Montblanc pen on his desk. "I don't know when things went wrong with you, but I'm done. Since your divorce from Philip, you broke so many promises and disobeyed every rule. I can't trust you anymore, no matter how much your mother is trying to persuade me to give you some slack. I see no point in continuing this charade."
"What charade?" My curiosity wins over my decision to stay cool and unaffected. Why is it so hard for me?
"Where we give you your allowance every month and agree to donate to various charities only for you to take advantage of your access to our money and squander it."
