The Temptation (Filthy Rich Americans 5)

Emery might have made a soft sigh, but it was drowned out by Sophia. “Oh, my God, he’s so cute!”

She wasn’t wrong. My nephew was pretty cute with a full head of hair and a tiny, curled fist pressed against his temple. I watched as Royce gingerly passed Tobias off to his in-laws. Had he given them this first privilege because they’d named their son with Hale family names? My father had to be pleased about that.

“Are you going to hold him?” Sophia asked her fiancé. “Because I might die seeing you with a baby in your arms.”

My father’s gaze was pinned on his grandson, his expression full of satisfaction. “Yes, I intend to hold him.”

We watched dutifully, waiting for our turn after the Northcotts. I leaned closer to my father.

“When we’re done here,” my voice was hushed, “would you mind stopping by the house? I have something I need to discuss with you.”

Did he suspect this was the conversation I’d put off for years? His shoulders rose as he took in a breath. “Of course.”

It was late when my father arrived at the house, late enough that Elliot had gone to bed. Not that my father needed an escort. He still had an access code and could come and go unannounced in the house he’d lived in for the first fifty-five years of his life.

He wore the same black Balenciaga suit he’d had on at the hospital but looked less intimidating to me than he had in the past. I was waiting for him in the foyer, my belly full of apprehension but also a weird feeling of excitement. I was ready to admit to my mistakes and take some power back from the guilt that had plagued me for years.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, turning into the salon and not giving him a chance to argue.

There was a liquor cabinet with a set of glass tumblers and few bottles that hadn’t been touched in years, and one that was brand new. It was the same brand of scotch my father drank once a year in remembrance of my mother. I turned two tumblers upright, unscrewed the cap on the scotch, and poured a finger’s worth in each glass as he quietly observed.

“No,” he said when I extended one, offering it to him.

“You sure? I think Mom would have today, would have wanted to share one with you. You’re grandparents now.”

His expression didn’t change, but shit—my words hit him like a sledgehammer. He didn’t hesitate in accepting the glass. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Good. You’re going to want it after this conversation.” His posture stiffened, but I motioned toward the door. “We should talk in the office.”

He carried his untouched drink as we wound through the house, and when he came into the office, his curious gaze immediately went to the Lagerfield in the center of the room.

“Yeah,” I commented. “We’ll get to that in a minute. But first, I need to say something that’s long overdue.” I took a sip of the scotch, letting its smoky flavor roll over my tongue. It wasn’t a tactic to stall. I’d done it to lend gravity to the next thing I was going to say because I wanted him to hear that it was genuine. “I’m sorry I had an affair with Alice, and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to apologize for it.”

He kept his intense gaze fixed on me as he took his first sip of his drink and considered my statement. He lowered his glass. His words were simple, but there was nothing simple about their meaning. “Thank you.”

His acknowledgement plunged the room into awkwardness, and surprisingly, he broke first.

“I understand,” he said, “better than most how manipulative Alice can be.”

“Don’t,” I said. “She didn’t take advantage of me. I knew what I was doing, and so did she.” I’d lived so much of my life following his orders, and even though I no longer did, it was hard to stand up. “You made sure everyone under you didn’t have any power. It’s why Royce came after your board seat, and it’s why Alice and I had the affair. It’s not an excuse, and yes, I did it intentionally to be cruel—but it was a way for me to take back some of the power you held over my head.”

The muscle along his jaw flexed, and his fingers tightened on the glass, but otherwise he didn’t react. This was the part where I expected him to get angry. He would rain down harsh words in a frigid voice and destroy something I cared about with surgical precision as punishment.

But his gaze didn’t fill with fire. The tension in his body didn’t erupt and cause him to surge forward. He just stared at me like a statue holding a decorative glass of scotch.