Public Relations

Chapter 6: Mia

"How's work going?" he asks, waterfalling the sweet and sour sauce over his Rangoons so thoroughly it drenches the food on his plate.

"It's fine. Normal."

"Busy?"

"Busy classifies as normal."

He raises his eyebrows at me. "Tone."

It takes everything in me not to snap at this. With anyone else, I'd unleash hellfire upon them. I'm a woman in business, a business historically comprised of the wealthy stepping all over us. I grew teeth when I was young and I learned how to use them to draw blood.

But my father is where I inherited those fangs in the first place, and partially out of necessity. He's a curt man, ruthless and blunt. He'd pinch my skin when I walked by in middle school to make comments about how it rolled over the seams of my jeans. He'd take one glance at an imperfect grade and make his disappointment immediately known. He'd kick me to the ground if it meant getting further in life, if he thought it'd push me further in life. Even if it ruined our relationship in the process.

It was the reason I was financially independent from him. He'd dangle that over my head until I couldn't breathe from how hard I strived for his approval.

"I heard about the scandal with that kid you represent."

"Which one?" I ask, disinterested. My chopsticks push the fried rice around the plate.

"Brett."

"No, which scandal?"

This catches his attention. "How many have there been?"

I sigh, exhausted from reliving this again after it sucked up my whole week to this point. "He punched a politician's kid this weekend and now his influencer ex-girlfriend is claiming to have been a witness to his violent behavior."

He tilts his head without looking at me, drinking in this information to chase down his third egg roll. There's only one left, and I know he won't be leaving it for me. "What have you been doing for that?"

This is a game, one I'm well-acquainted with. I'll give him the spiel, what I've done, future plans, the whole nine. And he'll find one flimsy idea, one weak spot, and dig into it until I crumble. 

"You know what? I don't really want to talk about work. How are things with you?"

It's a risky move, redirecting the conversation like that, but he allows it. "Things are great! I've just moved Sharon and I into that new house."

Sharon is wife number four, my mother having been the unfortunate first. I didn't attend the wedding - wasn't even invited - having caused quite the scene at the last. It was a fair assessment, not inviting me. I probably would've been a huge bitch all over again. 

"That's great to hear," I reply, hoping there's more enthusiasm in my face than there is in my voice.

My father points his fork at me, a few grains of rice dropping to the table as he does so. If he notices, he pays them no mind. "You know, I was looking over your LinkedIn the other day. That picture you have is certainly bold."

Good god. "Didn't you just build a pool at the house?"

"I did. The heater doesn't work though, so it's basically useless right now.

I gesture to the window, where the weather is unforgivingly hot just beyond. "Is the sun not pulling its weight?"

He gives one sharp laugh, like a villain. "The pool is much too big big for that. It's fifteen feet deep."

"Right."

He meets my gaze, our dark eyes locking for the first time since he arrived. I was made from the same color palette as him, olives and chocolates and golds. Time had worn his complexion away to something that more resembled the sickly color of bad milk. Time, or being a complete jackass. Nasty behavior tends to make you nasty.