"I'm getting married."
That was the first thing I heard when I picked up the phone, still half-asleep and tangled in the sheets. Sighing, I sat up, squinting at the pale Saturday morning light bleeding through the curtains.
"Oh," I said flatly.
"That's all you've got to say?" Pearce Hewitt's voice was sly, testing me.
"Well," I muttered, already swinging my legs off the bed. I padded toward the bathroom, the phone still pressed to my ear.
I closed the door behind me with deliberate calm. "Is she the one you brought in last week… or the one before that, when the model was on her trip?"
My father didn't reply right away. I knew the model was probably sitting in the car right now, diamond ring already on her finger, waiting for the announcement.
My words wouldn't change anything. Pearce Hewitt never cared what anyone thought—not his dead wife, not his children, not the family's reputation.
And the shameless whore just want a generational settlement.
