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“Weekly.”
“Our vehicles?”
“Daily.”
Groans of frustration precede me slamming my head backwards.
I momentarily squeeze my eyes shut, instantly wincing over the pain it ignites.
“His plan is to extend his search parameters outward a bit, but hey,” a small nudge at my leg forces my attention back to the man that’s always been at my side, “let him worry about security.” My dry mouth twitches to argue only to be met by an all-knowing headshake. “And Hawthorne legal. He’s been diligently searching for technicalities and strategies to minimize the amount of financial as well as public damage this Monica stunt is causing the company. He’ll be by tomorrow to touch base.”
Good.
Because I’ve come to a very important conclusion.
I want Monica to have what she rightfully deserves.
In spite of the Joker worthy circus she’s turned my life into, she deserves a portion of our company.
Perhaps our father didn’t want the masses to know that; however, that was his choice.
It doesn’t have to be mine.
I refuse to not acknowledge a portion of my family, of my bloodline, simply because he chose not to.
Simply because rather than publicly acknowledge his mistakes or imperfections, he went to extreme lengths to hide and erase them.
Monica mostly likely is this…bitter…and vengeful because of the rejection she’s lived with her entire existence.
I can’t fault her for that.
And I don’t have to.
I will give her what she’s requesting – both in word and financial compensation – and then offer to buy out her portion.
I don’t wanna work with her.
I don’t want her anywhere near our branding or what I’ve built.
I want her to have what she’s entitled to and the opportunity to create or build what it is that fills her with passion exactly like I have.
While I followed in the footsteps of my father and grandfather and all the Wilcoxes that came before me, I’ve found my own calling within our legacy. A love for whiskey above all else, and it’s that devotion, that dedication I think Monica needs in her own life.
It’ll help her heal.
Move forward.
Realize what it took cases of aged booze for me to understand.
We do not have to bear the weight of other’s mistakes.
Only our own.
J.T. offers me a small grin, “You just worry about getting better, okay?”
“I concur,” Lauren sweetly interjects at the same time she reenters the room with a mug in hand. “And you can continue that process by drinking this cup of tea before Dr. Sawyer arrives for your session.”
“And how is Dr. Feelings enjoying his time back in Gotham?” my best friend mirthfully teases.
