Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(46)

“There’s no sin greater than hubris, Dad. Pride is a luxury you cannot afford right now,” I said measuredly, trying another angle.

“Arya, I’m not going to make a last-minute change just because some nameless friend of yours told you I should do so.” My father tossed his napkin over the table, standing up. “On that note, I think it’s time you upped your game. You’ve been following me around like a lost puppy and doing very little so far to help me get out of this.”

Get out of this? He thought I had the agency to help him get off the hook?

“My bad. Let me go look for my magic Your-Honor-he-is-innocent wand.” I wasn’t sure how Dad and I had gotten where we were right now. My mother looked between us like we were two strangers interrupting her brunch.

He shook his head. “I’ll see you at home, Beatrice. Arya.” He dipped his head, got up, and left. I sat there, speechless, while my mother took another sip of her G&T. She was hardly affected by how upset Dad was. Then again, I hadn’t seen my parents act like a normal couple even once. Their relationship looked more like that of two siblings who didn’t like each other very much.

“Do you think he did it?” I blurted out.

My mother’s seamless demeanor didn’t crack. In fact, she continued dissecting her eggs Benedict with her fork and knife and took a small bite of her food. “Arya, please. Your father has definitely had his fair share of affairs, but all of them were consensual. These women flung themselves at him shamelessly. I’m sure he and Amanda enjoyed each other’s company at some point and she expected more compensation after he discarded her for a newer model.”

“He cheated on you?” But I already knew the answer to that question.

My mother laughed throatily, tearing off a miniscule piece of sourdough bread and popping it between her scarlet lips. “Cheated, cheating, will cheat. You choose the tense. But I wouldn’t use that term, exactly. Cheating implies I care. I haven’t had an interest in fulfilling my marital obligations in a while. It was always understood that if he wanted female affection, he’d have to seek it elsewhere.”

“Why didn’t you get a divorce?” I spit out, anger humming beneath my skin. I was under no illusion that my parents had a happy marriage, but I’d thought they were semifunctional.

“Because,” she droned, “why should we go through that horrible, tacky mess when we have an understanding?”

“Where’s your pride?”

“Where’s his?” she asked, almost cheerfully. “Virtues don’t age well in upper society. You think slipping in and out of strange women’s beds like a thief is more honorable than my sitting at home and knowing about it?”

My reality as I knew it came tumbling down. I wouldn’t say I put Dad on a pedestal, but I definitely viewed him through rose-colored glasses. Now I wondered what else my parents were keeping from me.

“How many affairs did he have?” I rearranged myself in my seat, feeling a rash coming my way.

Mom waved a hand dismissively. “Six? Seven? Serious mistresses, I mean. Oh, who knows? I wasn’t aware of Amanda, but there were others. His infidelity started early on. Before you and your brother were born, in fact. But after Aaron died . . .”

My heart cracked. Not breaking all the way but enough that she was human and lovable in that moment, not just the woman who’d ignored my existence from the day she’d lost my brother.

“That’s terrible.”

My mother smiled delicately. “Is it? He’s been a wonderful father to you all these years when I could barely look at you. You remind me too much of your brother.”

Was that why she hated me? Why she ignored my existence?

“He never demanded a thing from me, even when it was clear I was no longer the woman he fell in love with. Is it terrible of him to seek love somewhere else or simply natural?”

“What he is being accused of has nothing to do with love.”

Mom mulled it over. “Your father is a twisted man. Can be, anyway.”

“Do you think he is capable of all the things they accuse him of?” I tried holding her gaze, but it was vacant. Empty. No one was home beyond Beatrice Roth’s emerald-green eyes. “Of sexually harassing someone?”

My mother signaled for the check, not meeting my stare. “My, it’s getting chilly. Let’s continue this some other time, shall we?”



“Ari?” Whitley, our office manager, popped her head from behind her Mac screen the following day at work. “There’s someone downstairs to see you.”

I double-clicked on my digital planner, frowning. “I don’t have any meetings until three.” Even that was in SoHo, a few blocks down from my office.

Jillian flashed me an inquisitive look from across the room, as did Hailey, our in-house graphic designer. Whitley nibbled on her cuticle, pinning the intercom phone between her shoulder and ear. “He’s downstairs.”

“Does he have a name?” I arched an eyebrow.

“I’m sure he does.”

“Now’s the time to ask what it is.”

Whitley ducked her head down, asking the person buzzing to come up what his name was. She tilted her head so she could see me beyond her screen. “Christian Miller. He says you’ll be happy to see him.”