But if not me, then who?
“Banks is more of a son than you ever were,” he went on. “I really should’ve known better. That kid was born in the gutter. Strength comes from trial. You only ever indulged. You get that weakness from your mother.”
I looked behind me at my sister who had removed her mask. She looked at me, concerned.
“Banks…” I said under my breath.
“Is my sole heir,” he finished. “I changed my will last year. She’s responsible, hard-working, and intelligent. She won’t drive my life’s work into the ground. If you’re good and get back in line, I’ll change it back.”
Something about what he said made anger knot in my stomach again. Like I still hated that he didn’t think I was good enough.
“It’s kind of ironic, actually,” he went on. “That I put all of my faith and energy into you for so long, believing a daughter could never be what a son could be, and as of right now, it looks like your sisters will be the ones with the real power in Thunder Bay. Not you.”
Sisters?
I looked at him, confused, as a slow, vile grin spread across his fucking face.
What the hell was he talking about?
I only had one sister.
Damon
Present
“They are exquisite, aren’t they?” my father asked, peering around me at whoever was standing there. “I’m not even unhappy about it. I can’t wait to see what they do.”
Slowly, I turned, looking over my shoulder, but something told me I already knew who he was referring to. I always knew.
I spotted Rika and Banks standing there, watching us and looking at me questioningly.
I closed my eyes, my heart thumping so hard. Motherfucker.
“Sisters…” I repeated, turning back around.
“It was also ironic that I could get any woman so easily pregnant, except my own wife.” Gabriel pulled out a cigar from his breast pocket. “Christiane was beautiful, though. I didn’t mean to knock her up, but I knew the kid would be good-looking with genes like that.”
I couldn’t believe it.
But then again, it made so much sense. The stars finally aligned.
He lit his cigar, the puffs of smoke clouding into the air.
“Rika…” I said in a low voice. “She’s yours.”
“Oh, I wish,” he shot out, smiling to himself. “But no, Erika is a Fane.”
What?
Then I don’t…
“A few years before her, though,” he told me, “Christiane had a son.”
And then he looked at me, taking a drag of his cigar and thinning his eyes against the smoke.
A son.
I stopped breathing.