If Grant weren't driving me to Mulholland Drive, I probably would've crashed my car by now. I tried to keep it together after apologizing to my employees, but my anger toward that fuck-up in my life was a bomb waiting to detonate—again.
"Listen," Grant said as we climbed higher into the hills, "I'm on your side, clearly. But you can't be crashing out like that—especially at work."
I grumbled against his words, staring out the window at the twisting roads. Yeah, I know. He's right.
"We know he's full of bullshit," he continued, hands steady on the wheel. "Don't let him see you mad. That's what he wants."
All I had to do was remember that at the dinner table. And yes—my mother had the audacity to invite us for a "family" dinner despite everything that had happened.
…......
The Italian food before us was flawless, as always—crafted by her personal chef: Mrs. Ricci, who lived in the back guesthouse. I'd often been tempted to have her cook for me in Beverly, but that wouldn't be fair considering her age. The only way to survive tonight was to bury myself in the gnocchi and risotto, inhaling the rich scents, and focusing on flavor instead of fury.
"I'm just glad to have both of my sons at the same table," my mother said warmly.
Henry looked up with a smile that made my blood boil. He didn't need to say a word—his smirk said it all. Acting like the golden son, as though he hadn't spent years drowning himself in alcohol and parading with hookers. Even the way he whistled and snapped for more wine made me sick. Who does that anymore? Yet my parents turned a blind eye, as if his rudeness were invisible.
"It would be nice to have more family dinners while Henry is in town," my mom added, her voice soft with suggestion.
I couldn't take it anymore. No amount of wine or food could choke back what I needed to say. That last sip of red gave me the courage to steer the conversation toward the elephant in the room that needed to be addressed.
"Mom," I said, setting my glass down firmly, "we need to talk about how you told him he could partner with Sera Elganza's affairs when he can't even handle his own company. Donni is doing great. Why not leave it at that when it comes to business?"
"Donni is not family," she countered quickly. "We need to make this a family business—and have more family dinners. No offense, Grant."
Grant lifted a hand with a small smile, showing he didn't take it to heart.
"Mom, you don't think this will harm the business if word gets out? Donni is doing great. But let's not forget he's just a puppet since your alcoholic of a son can't take responsibility for his actions. He's the reason we're in this mess!"
The quietest at the table finally spoke—and when my dad spoke, everyone listened, even if it was bullshit.
"Don't talk to Henry like that," he barked.
His rage should've been directed at Henry, but it never was. Henry was his favorite. Always had been. Just because someone is your legitimate child doesn't mean it's right to treat your other kid as less. But he'd been doing it since I was little—with words, with passive-aggressive gestures. It always hurts. Tonight, it was worse: pain mixed with the anger pounding through me as my mom silently agreed with him.
As if my opinion on the future of the business meant nothing, my father turned his body toward Henry, lavishing him with praise for the "apparent" clients he'd made while in Thailand.
"It's been good business but very time-consuming," Henry said with faux modesty before draining half his glass of wine.
I'd been watching all evening. He drank every time he lied. And all I could hope was that he'd be stumbling down the driveway by the time dinner officially ended.
"You need to reserve your energy and eat more," Mom fussed, piling more food onto his plate.
I glanced at Grant, trying to pull him into my silent fury, but he only shook his head—a warning to keep my mouth shut. Exhaling a groan I tried to disguise, I raised my glass toward Mrs. Ricci.
"Another pour, please," I said evenly.