“It is if she—or you—want access to her inheritance,” Douglas snapped. “Which isn’t going to happen. Her grandmother gave me final say over who I deem suitable, and you are not it. Reagan knew that and yet she still defied my wishes, regardless that it would bring hurt and shame onto her family.”
“Douglas,” Henrietta whispered, laying a hand on her husband’s arm.
“No, Henrietta, this needs to be said,” he said. “I—”
“No, it doesn’t,” Reagan quietly interrupted. “It doesn’t need to be said, Dad, because I already know. You’ve made it very clear over the years—ten to be exact—that I have only brought disappointment, embarrassment and pain to this family. God knows I’ve tried to make up for it by being the respectable, obedient daughter, by following every rule you’ve laid down, by placing your needs and opinions above my own. But nothing I’ve done or will do will ever make up for me being less than worthy of the Sinclair name. For being less than perfect.”
“Honey,” Henrietta breathed, reaching a hand toward her daughter. “That’s just not true.”
That sense of foreboding spread inside Ezekiel, triggering the need to gather Reagan into his arms and shield her from the very people who were supposed to love her unconditionally. Because this was about more than an elopement or an inheritance. This—whatever it was that vibrated with pain and ugliness between these three—was older, burrowed deeper. And it still bled like a fresh wound.
“It’s true, Mom,” Reagan continued in that almost eerily calm voice. “We’ve just been so careful not to voice it aloud.”
Ezekiel looked at Douglas, silently roaring at the man to say something, to comfort his obviously hurting daughter. To climb down off that high horse and tell her she was loved and accepted. Valued.
“If you think this ‘woe is me’ speech is going to change my mind about the inheritance, you’re wrong.” The same deep freeze in Douglas’s voice hardened his face. “I hope your new husband...” he sneered the word “...with his own financial and legal troubles can provide for you. Although, that future is looking doubtful.”
Fury blazed through Ezekiel, momentarily transforming his world into a crimson veil.
“Watch it, Douglas,” he warned. “No one smears my family name. And since your daughter now wears it, she’s included. I care for mine... I prot
ect them above all else. And before you throw that recklessly aimed stone, you might want to ask yourself if you can claim the same.”
“Don’t you dare question me about how I protect my family,” Douglas snapped. “All I have ever done, every decision, is for them. You, who has had everything handed to you merely because of your last name, know nothing about sacrifice. About the hard work it takes to ensure your family not only survives but thrives. About rising above what people see in order to be more than they ever believed you are possible of. You don’t know any of that, Ezekiel Holloway. So don’t you ever question my love for them. Because it’s that love that convinces me that my daughter marrying you is the worst decision she could’ve ever made.”
Anger seethed beneath Ezekiel’s skin, a fiercely burning flame that licked and singed, leaving behind scorch marks across his heart and soul.
“I may be a Holloway, but I’m still a black man in Royal, Texas. You don’t corner the market on that. When the world looks at me, they don’t see my white father. They see a black man who should be grateful about being born into a powerful, white family. When they find out where I work and my position, they assume I’m only there because I’m Ava Holloway Wingate’s nephew, not because I earned it by busting my ass working my way up in the company while attending college and receiving my bachelor’s and master’s.” He huffed out a breath. “So don’t talk to me about hard work or sacrifice, because I’ve had to surrender my voice and my choice at times so others can feel comfortable about sitting down at a table with me. I’ve had to work ten times harder just to be in the same place and receive the respect that others are given just because of the color of their skin.”
He forced his fingers to straighten from the fist they’d curled into down by his thigh. “And I never questioned your love for your family. I just have reservations about the way you show it.”
“Zeke,” Reagan whispered, leaning into him. Offering support or comfort, he didn’t know. Maybe both.
“Please, if we can all just calm down for a moment,” Henrietta pleaded, glancing from her husband and back to Ezekiel and Reagan. “Before we all say something we can’t take back.”
“Mom, I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Reagan said, a weariness that Ezekiel detested weighing down every word. “And I’m sorry for hurting you. Again.” Inhaling a deep breath, she dipped her chin in her father’s direction. “You, too, Dad.”
She turned and walked out of the room, and Ezekiel followed, not giving her parents a backward glance. His loyalty belonged to the woman they’d just selfishly, foolishly rejected.
Fuck it. He would be her family now.
She had him. And no matter that their union was temporary, he would give her a family to belong to.
Thirteen
Funny how a person could have pain pouring from every cell of their body and still walk, breathe, live. Since arriving at her parents’ house, she’d become the embodiment of agony, grief and rage. Yet, she managed to grab an overnight bag, descend the front steps, climb into Ezekiel’s car, buckle up and not break down as he drove away from a house that had been her home all her life.
Like a horror-movie reel, the scene in the informal parlor played out across her mind. Only to rewind when it finished and start again.
Reagan squeezed her eyes shut and balled her hands in her lap. But all that did was twist the volume up in her head. She’d known deep down that her father blamed her for her past mistakes, had never forgiven her for them. And his accusations as well as his stony silence confirmed it. But still, oh God, did that hurt. It hurt so badly she longed to curl up in a ball on the passenger’s seat and just disappear.
Be strong.
Never show weakness or emotion.
Be above reproach and avoid the very appearance of impropriety.
Those had been rules, creeds she’d lived by as a Sinclair. And except for when she’d fallen so far from grace at sixteen, she’d striven to live up to that hefty responsibility. But now, after living with so many cracks and fissures because of the pressure placed on her, she just wanted to break. Break into so many pieces until Reagan Sinclair could never be formed again.