Page 111 of Hate To Love You

going on with you, but

you need to get your shit

together, get in your damn

car, and get home. NOW.

Fuck. Why does everyone have to be so goddamn annoying?

The last thing I want to do right now is drive home. It’s ten, which means I won’t even get home until around midnight. All I want to do right now is down a bottle of bourbon and go to bed.

I know going home is going to be a mistake. I know my father will say something to set me off and then I’ll fight back, and mom will get upset that we’re ruining the holiday. It happens every year. We’re not the type of family that can sit around a table to eat Thanksgiving dinner and tell each other what we’re thankful for. We’re dysfunctional in the worst way possible.

But it looks like I don’t have a choice.

—————————

I pull up to the gates of my family home, enter the passcode, and pull into our rounded driveway around twelve thirty to find that all of the lights are on in the main house.

The Steele Estate is a display of opulence and timeless elegance, set on a sprawling fifty-acre property that’s been in my family for generations. The exterior of the estate is a testament to generations of refined taste and meticulous upkeep.

A grand wrought-iron gate with intricate detailing and the Elite crest stands as the formal entrance. The gate opens to a long, tree-lined driveway, where century-old oaks and elms form a natural canopy overhead. The cobblestone path is meticulously maintained, leading up to a circular courtyard paved with flagstones and adorned with a central fountain.

I’m actually surprised my egotistical father hasn’t created a statue of himself to place in the fountain.

The main house is larger than any one family really needs, with a stone face and tall, elegant windows framed by classic white shutters. The symmetrical design is punctuated by a grand portico with towering Corinthian columns, leading to a set of double doors.

The property holds a large pool, and a fully equipped pool house with a bar, changing rooms, and a sauna, a tennis court, and a guest house.

One may think that this would be every kids dream, to grow up with all of this. But it wasn’t mine. It was lonely, and cold. With my father rarely ever being home, and my mother trying her best to hide her depression, Logan and I were taken care of by our nanny and Tatia who made sure we were fed and well nourished.

I know my mother tried her best under the circumstances, but it wasn’t enough for two young boys who needed their mom.

Putting my car in park, I turn off the engine, climb out of the car and grab my things, swinging my bag over my shoulder. I take a deep breath before entering into the large foyer.

Everything is exactly how I remember it. I haven’t been home since Easter. I stayed at the Elite mansion over the summer and into the fall semester. My mom wasn’t happy about my choice to stay away, but I think she understood. Logan came back often, so they kept her at bay.

A man greets me with a polite smile. “Good evening, Mr. Steele. Glad to have you home,” he says. My face softens slightly as I give him a small nod.

“Anton,” I acknowledge the man. Anton has been working for my family for years. He was here before I was born, and to my surprise, he hasn’t left. He must be at least eighty now, but he refuses to retire, even though my mother has told him he can leave at any time.

For some reason I can’t even begin to comprehend, he says he enjoys working for our family. He knew my grandfather and grandmother, he watched my father grow up, and then Logan and me. The poor guy deserves a break, but he just won’t take one.

“Your father has requested your presence in his study,” Anton tells me, a bit of what sounds like concern in his voice. Seriously? It’s almost one in the morning. Why would he want to meet now?

Begrudgingly, I begin to walk toward the study, knowing this can only be about two things, Gwen or Ashton. I knew my father would somehow hear about the incident in the campus gym parking lot. I didn’t exactly make myself inconspicuous. I was too filled with rage to think of covering my tracks.

I made sure no one else was in the parking lot at the time, but I didn’t think of the cameras on the outside of the building and lampposts. Dean Ashby was most likely made aware of what happened when Ashton was sent to the hospital. Then he must have looked through the security footage, saw it was me, and contacted my father.

Lucky me.

My heart races as I knock on the door to the study. My father’s low, rough voice calls from the other side.

“Come in,” he orders.

Inhaling deeply, I push the door open and enter the large room. My father sits behind his sizable mahogany desk, a glass full of what I’m guessing is bourbon in his hand as he stares down at a paper in front of him. His reading glasses are on the bridge of his nose, and he doesn’t even lift his head to look at me.

Behind him is a floor to ceiling bookshelf that stretches from wall to wall, full of books I’m almost positive he’s never even read, and no one had ever touched.

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