Within These Walls (The Walls Duet #1)(86)

I couldn’t go back to her.

Seeing my mother grieving over my father’s casket as it had lowered into the ground made that clear. Walking into a boardroom of middle-aged men who expected me to save this company had solidified it. I had made my decision when I called Roman, and I’d chosen my fate.

Now, I was living with it—barely.

When I’d agreed to come home, I’d told Roman things would be run differently. I’d held him to that, and since the day I’d arrived back home, I’d completely restructured how everything in the business worked financially. It wasn’t a perfectly oiled machine yet, but it was running better. We were making money again.

That was where Melody had come in.

I still remembered the look of complete shock and surprise when I’d told Roman that once we were back on our feet financially, I wanted to donate a significant percentage of our profits to charity. Not only that, but I wanted to hire someone to run the donations and also raise additional funds.

We would no longer be in it solely for the profit. We would give back.

If working in the trenches of a hospital for three years had taught me anything, it was that people were always in need.

Tonight marked the first charity ball organized by my newly hired Director of Charitable Donations, and if the one million dollars raised tonight said anything, I’d say she was good at her job.

She’d also been subtly hitting on me for weeks.

Melody saw me like the rest of the world did. With such a tragic past, I was the wounded puppy who needed to be cuddled and loved by just the right person.

Every woman on the Upper East Side thought she was just that person.

None of them were.

Warm breath tickled my ear. “Do you want to dance with me, Jude?” Melody whispered. She smelled like expensive perfume mixed with scotch.

I glanced up and met her hooded gaze. The dress she’d chosen was tight and cut low, exposing the perfect curves her body had to offer.

I felt nothing.

“I’d better go,” I answered, rising from the stool as I slapped a twenty on the table.

“But the evening just started.”

“I’ve got a pile of work waiting for me, and I still need to go visit my mom tomorrow,” I answered before adding, “Sorry. Everything is great, Melody, really. I just have to get out of here.”

I fled, loosening my bow tie as soon as I hit the cool chill of the outside, and I hailed a cab for downtown. My gut twisted as we passed a billboard sign covered in green hills, advertising Irish tourism.

Life really was cruel.

I guess no one ever said being a martyr would be easy.

My father had done one or two things right during his thirty-year rein of Cavanaugh Investments. One of those was relocating the main headquarters to its current location.

As I looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that put the New York skyline on full display, I felt a kind of kinship with the man I’d barely known. I remembered walking into his office, which was now mine, and seeing him standing in the corner with a drink in hand as he looked out at the buildings, thinking, planning, and plotting.

Family life was always split in our household. I was my mother’s child, and Roman was my father’s. It was the reason I was compassionate when my brother was greedy and the reason why I’d put myself above others when Roman would gladly just take everything for himself.

But our father had had one thing that Roman had yet to figure out. Dad had had Mom. That woman had kept his greed and need for power tethered. When it got too out of hand, she’d reel him back to earth. Granted, she could only do so much, but she was his anchor nonetheless.

My brother had nothing.

Nothing kept him tethered, and I worried that he might someday step so far over the line for something he wanted that he would get burned. Then, he’d finally understand what true loss was like.

“Somehow, I knew I’d find you here,” Roman’s deep voice said as he entered the dark office.

“Do you remember how Dad used to drink whiskey and count under his breath?” I asked without bothering to look up.

Footsteps sounded behind me until I saw the black of his tuxedo jacket out of the corner of my eye.

“Yeah, he’d stand here, just like this, and slowly sip his single malt and count. I asked him once why he did it, and he simply said it kept him sane.”

“I guess we all need something,” I commented as we continued to watch life go on beyond the glass.

“What do you need, Jude?”

I turned to him, surprised by his question. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” he scoffed, taking a step backward. He began to pace. “I mean, you’re spiraling, little brother. I see the work you’re doing for the company, and damn, Jude, it’s amazing, but then I find you here, late at night, like some creepy hermit. Why do I get the feeling that coming home was the last thing you wanted to do?”

“I’m here. Isn’t that all that matters?”

“No, damn it. It’s not!” he yelled, throwing his hands up. “I know you might think I’m some heartless *, and to most people, I am. What I did to you, after Megan died—I’ve been living with that regret for years. I should have flown out there and helped you, gotten you back on your feet, done something besides think of myself.”

“What kept you? If you were so distraught over me, so filled with guilt, why didn’t you just pick up the phone or fly out and see me?”