Father’s face softens. “I know you’re having a rough time since your wife left you—”
“She didn’t fucking leave me,” I roar, making the woman jump.
Aris seems pleased as hell to see me lose my shit over our father’s indiscretions. The smile is wiped off his face when his phone rings. As he scrambles to pull his phone from his pocket, something hits the floor and bounces. A pacifier. For a baby. I stare at it in confusion as he picks it up and shoves it back in his pocket. He answers the phone in a hateful tone that makes me wonder, again, if he even likes that woman he’s shacked up with. His dumbass bitch can be heard screeching on the other line. He pales and then pure fury morphs the charming Demetriou prince into a dragon. For a split second, his hateful eyes find mine, and if they had the power, he’d slay me where I stand.
“Emergency with Selene,” he growls out as he pushes past me, knocking his shoulder into mine on the way out.
Lyssa takes his exit as her cue to leave as well. As she steps past me, I grab her bicep. She shoots me a panicked look.
“You fucked him while he was married to my mother?” I demand in a cold tone.
Her eyes flicker over to my father, but he doesn’t save or defend her. I can see it in her eyes. The answer is clear as day. Yes.
“Lyssa is a tigress in bed, son. You can’t tell me you haven’t fucked anyone since Talia left.”
“She. Didn’t. Leave. Talia was taken.”
“And with all those pretty maids walking around, you’re telling me you didn’t get your dick sucked not once this entire time?”
“I’m fucking married, Father!”
He snorts. “Marriage is something for everyone else to see. It’s an illusion of happiness. Everyone fucks around. Even me.”
But what about loyalty to your motherfucking wife? He’s drilled loyalty into my head since I was old enough to learn what the word meant. It was all a fucking lie.
“Adrian,” I bark out.
His heavy footsteps thud down the hall. “Sir?”
“Take Lyssa home. The long way.”
He doesn’t argue or balk at my orders. Adrian’s a good man. Without explanation, he’ll do what needs doing and that’s burying this dirty little secret today.
I release her once he has her in his grip. He stalks away with her. My gaze falls to the stack of bills on the dresser—money she’ll never touch again.
“You lied to me,” I tell him, bitterness creeping into my tone. “My entire life I thought you were devoted to my mother.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” he bites out. “You know your mother slept with Niles fucking Nikolaides of all people.”
I couldn’t understand it before. How she’d even step out of her marriage in the first place. But now I wonder. Did she know about my father’s whores? Was she trying to hurt him like he hurt her?
“When did you take your first whore after marriage?” I ask, my voice deadly and cold.
He glowers at me and his jaw clenches. My eyes skirt over to the pillow beside him. My mother’s pillow. A smear of Lyssa’s lipstick taints the pillowcase. A framed picture of my mother on the nightstand faces the bed as though she’s punished even in death to take my father’s abuse.
“This is none of your business,” he says, cutting through my thoughts.
Slamming my gaze back on his, I crack my neck. “Everything’s my business now.”
His nostrils flare at my words. The double meaning behind them. “I’m still in charge here,” he seethes. “You’re my son, but you mustn’t forget who built this empire from the ground up.”
His skin is grayish and his muscle tone is gone. Father is nothing but a decaying bag of bones. It’s a wonder his dick still works because his legs sure as fuck don’t. He’s a pathetic excuse for a man lying in his bed, unable to do a goddamn thing but listen to what I have to say.
“You’re not in charge,” I state coolly. “I’ve been running this shit ever since the accident last year.”
“Accident? Your mother’s attempted murder was an accident?”
“You provoked her,” I bark.
“You’re insane, boy.”
I crack my neck again before sliding my jacket off and draping it over the back of his wheelchair. His eyes track my movements. When I unbutton my shirt at the cuff, he narrows his gaze.
“You’re going to beat an old man up? What kind of son are you?” Despite his rage, fear glimmers in his eyes.
I slowly roll my sleeve up to my elbow. The muscles in my forearm flex and the veins throb with the need to inflict pain.
“You’re my father,” I hiss. “I’d never strike you.”
He relaxes some, but his weary gaze remains fixed on my actions. I take my time rolling up my other sleeve as well.