AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Does he know about the contract with Gus?
Guiltily, I glance up and realize he’s not even looking at me.
“He said you were in Milan a couple days ago,” my father continues—and he finally wrangles his sandwich, thank god. “How was it?”
Relieved doesn’t even begin to cover it. Exhaling, I raise both shoulders. “Good. I went with Jay. I did a paid appearance at a nightclub to promote a vodka.”
“Vodka,” my father muses. “Which vodka? I invest in some liquor portfolios. Maybe I have a stake.”
“You don’t,” I assure him, unwilling to admit it was yet another shitty, celebrity vodka that I wouldn’t even use as rubbing alcohol. “It’s new.”
“Hm,” he murmurs. “Well, I’m glad you had a fun trip. Any plans for the coming year?”
“Some traveling and brand work. Nothing out of the ordinary.” The admission seems insignificant compared to everything I’ve done with Davis over the past few months. I’m almost embarrassed to mention my paid posts, especially to a man who is objectively one of the most successful businessmen of his generation.
“Sounds like fun. Glad you’re keeping busy.”
“I try.”
We fall into silence, which isn’t out of the ordinary for my father and me. Growing up, he tended to ignore me if one of my brothers was around. He was always priming Davis for leadership in the company and chastising Kieran for his bullshit. When we were alone, he always fell back into silence, like he never knew what to make of me. Maybe I was too defiant. Too independent. It was like he knew he couldn’t trap me with the same golden handcuffs or short leashes that kept my brothers in check.
My attention drifts over his shoulder, where he keeps his impressive collection of books arranged on full-wall shelves. When I recognize one title in particular, my heartbeat stutters. I finished reading it last week: a book on unicorn startups with a sizable section on Gus and FundRight.
Just like that, Gus Winter reemerges as the preeminent squatter in my brain.
My blood nearly boils when I remember him in the nightclub in Milan. His hands on my body. His low, rumbling voice in my ear. His middle finger flipping me off and then disappearing between his lips.
I want to break shit. Burn shit. Break his shit and burn his shit. To come all the way to Milan just to humiliate me, leaving me with my tits out and my pussy wet with an order to go to Montana to fulfill my obligations? The audacity is palpable. I want to choke him with it.
“Is everything okay?” my father asks, snapping me back to attention.
He startles me, but I don’t flinch.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’ve been glaring at my bookshelf for half a minute.”
“Reading titles,” I answer—a partial lie, sure. “Anything you’d recommend?”
Immediately, he shakes his head. “You wouldn’t like any of them.”
My eyebrow shoots up. All throughout my childhood and teenage years, my father brought home stacks of books for Davis to read every month. Unconquerable stacks. Nonfiction shit. The Art of War. Old treatises on game theory. Apparently he wasn’t concerned if Davis would like any of them.
Well, the joke’s on him because I’ve read nine of the books on his shelves this year alone: three while learning about Gus, and six more to answer all the questions those books about Gus raised for me.
Except it’s not a joke. It’s the truth—and his assumptions remind me that my father has never cared about my role in his empire. Ever.
I push aside my salad and lean back in my chair, taking in his unassuming silence. He inhales another big bite of his sandwich—unaware that he just sent me on a mini-brain spiral. “Can I ask you something?”
He nods, but also says, “Julia, never ask if you can pose a question. Just ask it.”
“Noted,” I reply, committing the advice to memory. “Dad, should I start learning more about Davenport-Ridgeway?”
Surprised, my father raises both eyebrows. He straightens his spine and fiddles with the edge of his suit jacket before he clarifies, “Like a tour of the building? Or…”
“Actually, I was thinking I could work on a project here,” I mention. “Something to get my feet wet.”
He lowers his eyebrows, but pulls them directly into a frown. “An internship? You have to be in business school to get an internship.”
