“Yes, James,” I whisper, and spin on unsteady feet. I try to run up the stairs, but I definitely drank too much vodka. I grasp the handrail tightly to keep my balance.
As I close our bedroom door, I hear James’ voice booming from the foyer. I want to hear what he’s saying, but the bitter taste lingering in my mouth makes me dash to the master bath. I place my mouth under the running water and rinse away the sourness, but it’s not enough. Instead, I move to the toilet as my stomach revolts and I expel my dinner.
I collapse onto the cold tile floor and a dark feeling of hopelessness tries to overtake me. It reminds me of the night my mother died. Too weak to fight, I surrender and the tears win.
Chapter Eleven
Sin
“Follow me to my office,” James instructs, pivoting on the shiny marble of the entryway. He doesn’t wait for an answer from me, but then again, he didn’t really ask a question. Everyone heeds to his commands and desires. What a demanding asshole.
He carries himself like he’s the ruler of the free world, but my disgust at his words about Harlow’s mouth and how he crushed her dignity only grows. How could he talk about his own fiancée like that? He’s a world-renowned heart specialist, not some backroom pimp. His vulgarity makes me realize I have no idea who my uncle is, nor does anyone else in my family. Nina would be repulsed.
A door shuts somewhere upstairs and I assume it’s Harlow heading to their bedroom. The thought of them in bed together makes me feel sick. She’s so sweet and young, and I fear he’s trapped her in some crazy web.
I leave my suitcase by the door and follow him toward a hallway, surveying the house as I walk. The place is fucking enormous. The ceilings above me have to be two stories high and extend into an expansive living area. Expensive furnishing from what looks to be a designer showroom cover every inch of space. Even though I’m in the middle of wheat fields, this place has the opulence of an Upper East Side penthouse owned by others richer than even my family. It reeks money—lots and lots of it. Especially for a small city like Rochester.
“We’ll talk in here.” James opens a tall, wooden door and flips on a light switch. Small lamps on the walls illuminate the room in soft hues. Mahogany paneled walls surround the room in shadows. A desk fit for a king sits back in the middle and the chair behind it could pass as a throne. The man likes to make a statement.
Two smaller chairs parked in front of the desk are practically child-like compared to King James’ chair. I move to a corner of the desk and sit on the edge, refusing to be intimidated by this man. I’ve only seen him a handful of times in my entire life. All our interactions were at formal family functions where polished manners and perfect appearances prevailed. Here, now, uncle or not, he’s not a friend of mine.
“What would you like to drink? Scotch?” James slips behind a small bar near the sidewall and pulls out two short glasses. “Or do you prefer a more common pour, like whiskey?”
James busies himself with the scotch bottle, his gaze remaining on his task. I respond by crossing my arms over my chest and remaining silent. Finally, he looks up at me with his brows knitted. He glances at my unyielding stance and a small smirk tips the corner of his lips. The bar between us serves as a dividing line.
Once I have his full attention, I decide to speak. “I’ll pass on the drink,” I say, not moving from my position on the desk. “You said you wanted to talk?” Or lecture me?
“I do.” James sips his drink and his icy blue eyes assess me from over the rim of the glass. He licks the taste of scotch from his lips and moves from the bar toward the desk. “Have a seat.”
He walks right past me without a glance, but I have no desire to sit in one of those small chairs like his royal subject. So, I move toward the bar instead, and lean against it to face him.
“Thanks, but I’ll stand. I’ve been sitting all day.” Even the airplane seats looked larger and more comfortable than what he is offering. Prick.
“Suit yourself.” He drains his scotch and places the now empty glass on the desk. “How many years has it been since we’ve seen each other, Sinclair?”
“Six summers ago in Nantucket.” It was the summer before I headed to Australia. I was a young, idealistic idiot, thinking the world was mine for the taking.
“Right, Nina managed to get all of us together at her summer retreat. I don’t think you said two words to me.”
“True, but I don’t remember you saying two words to me either.”
“Good point,” he laughs in an odd way that makes my skin crawl. “When Nina asked me to offer you a spot in The Clinic’s program, I wasn’t quite sure what to think. I always thought you would end up helping your father run his empire.”
“I really appreciate this opportunity.” My words are sincere. “I’m lucky to have the spot.”