He takes a moment, likely mulling over his response. He doesn’t believe me, but he also doesn’t have any evidence to the contrary. “Watch your tone,” he warns.
I give him a moment to calm, wishing I could simply disconnect both the call and him from my life. Six more months, I remind myself. Graduate, pass the bar, and move on. That light at the end of the desolate tunnel is within reach. I can’t ruin my chances now.
I soften my voice. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to offend you.” He doesn’t respond, probably because I haven’t groveled enough. But although I depend on him in every aspect of my life, my patience has worn thin following years of being berated. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Spencer Woodworth phoned me today,” he says, not bothering to acknowledge my apology. “He’s asked me to consider donating to his son’s campaign for mayor. You remember his son, young Spencer Woodworth the second, don’t you? He seemed quite taken with you.”
If “taken with me” involves groping and fondling me in his limousine, then I suppose he was. I rub my eyes, remembering how I had to walk seventeen blocks home when I refused to spend the night with him following an event I’d been forced to attend. Spencer-the-second was a douchebag, and I told Father as much. But either he didn’t care or didn’t believe me.
“Contessa, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Father.” Nausea claims my belly as I clutch the soft blanket my stepmother had given me. I know where this conversation is going, and it’s already making me sick.
My family is one of the last of the Pennsylvania blue bloods—posh members of society whose gene lines can be traced back to royalty. The men belonging to this so-called exquisite bloodline are few, and the women even fewer. I’m one of the youngest, and unfortunately, so is Spencer.
“Contessa, do you remember Spencer or not?”
“I remember him well,” I assure him.
He ignores the bite to my tone. “Good. I agreed to the donation in exchange for your presence at his son’s side.”
“I’m sure Spencer would prefer someone else. The last time we saw each other we had a terrible fight—”
“His campaign fundraiser is in three weeks,” he continues, unaffected. “Spencer senior seemed thrilled with the idea. Perhaps you can reignite the spark between you.”
My head falls against my hand. Don’t. Don’t do this to me again. “There’s no spark. I told you, he was horrible to me—”
“Then perhaps you should have been a little nicer,” he bites out. “Mallory shall escort you to a boutique one week before the event for a formal dress. Be ready at ten….”
“I can’t. I have exams coming up—and, and my duties at the DA’s office have become more demanding.”
“I’ve arranged a private showing,” he continues. If he bothered listening, he’d hear the tears and desperation in my voice.
“Please don’t make me do this,” I beg.
“Quit acting like a child, stop your whining, and do not disappoint me,” he snaps. “Your future depends on it.”
When he disconnects, it’s all I can do not to throw the stupid phone.
His comment about my future is meant as a warning so I don’t screw up his future.
My father is a wealthy man. His seemingly limitless funds have allowed him to hold prestigious positions and associate with the power elite. Yet it’s never enough. He needs to feel important—omnipotent even—someone people seek, admire, and tremble before. It’s sick how he obsessively craves it like a drug, and how little he cares who it hurts and what it costs someone else, especially when it pertains to me.