Page 23 of Dreams on the Ice

And then we can get the fuck out of here.

I want to leave right fucking now, but Brooklynn is right when she says that this isn’t just for me but for my future, too.

No matter what, I think I’m going to go ahead and get an attorney. Whatever my parents agree to by tomorrow, they could take away in the next breath, and that is bullshit because it’s not really their money to give me. It’s my grandparents’.

I could live more than comfortably without my parents’ money because my grandparents were the ones who truly hooked me up. My parents’ money isn’t anything to laugh at, but my grandparents’ money is so much that I could live my entire life without lifting a single finger, as could my children and their children.

“Forrest,” Brooklynn calls out as soon as we approach the house. I wrap my fingers around the knob and start to open the door when she snaps the word, “No.”

I lift my head, and my gaze finds hers. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. When I open my mouth to ask her what’s wrong, she continues speaking.

“No,” she says, repeating the word.

I don’t understand it, but as I glance around, I can’t help but think that she knows exactly what the fuck is going on here. And although she’s saying the word, it’s another thing she’s got on her plate. Another thing that is so not her fucking issue—but mine.

“No?” I ask, even though I’m certain I know what she’s going to say.

“No,” she repeats, but thankfully, this time she continues. “You’re not going to walk away from this, and you’re not going to give in. This crazy-ass life is yours, and we’re going to get your birthright back.”

Fuck me, but this woman is worth a million bucks. Sexy and determined as hell. It’s almost like she’s not real. I’ve never had anyone believe in me the way she does.

“Then let’s go.”

I tug the door open, then hold it for her to pass through. My mother would likely prefer we used the main entrance, but I don’t give much of a fuck about that. She can kick rocks, especially with the way she’s been acting during all of this.

The blatant disrespect of my relationship, fake or otherwise, is astounding yet not at all shocking. She is a Westwood, after all. Even if she wasn’t born into the family, she is, without a doubt, created by them.

I suck in a breath as we walk through the door and move toward the party. It doesn’t surprise me that she’s holding itin the formal dining room, and it also doesn’t surprise me that she’s completely changed the whole space from last night.

I’m sure people worked all night and into the wee hours of the morning on cleaning it up and redecorating. They were paid handsomely without a doubt, but at the same time, I also don’t doubt that my mother was a nightmare to work for.

When we step into the party, I am not surprised to see that Kiki is there with her mother, and they are dressed in the brightest, most god-awful clothes possible. They want to stand out and be seen.

So I ignore them.

My father is the first to appear in front of me. He is smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can I talk to you, son?” he asks.

Son.

It’s a title that I don’t particularly care for, seeing as it is supposed to be something warm and happy. It’s not that. It’s never been that, and it will never be that. Shifting my attention from him to Brooklynn, I lift a brow in question.

Like the amazing fake girlfriend and real lover she is, she gives me a smile and an approving nod before she releases my hand and takes a step backward. Reluctantly, I leave her and follow my father toward his office.

My father holds the door open for me, then closes it and locks it as I move into the middle of the room. I watch him as he slowly makes his way behind his desk, his eyes lifting to find mine as he places his palms on the center and bends slightly at the waist.

I love how fucking dramatic he’s being right now, but at the same time, I don’t have the patience for this shit. But I wait, knowing that if I try and rush his dramatics, he’s going to get pissed off and take ten times as long.

So I wait.

And finally, he decides to tell me why the fuck he called me in here.

“Are you finished with the charade?” he asks.

Arching a brow, I cross my arms over my chest and tip my chin, looking down my nose at him. He smiles and then stands up straight when I don’t respond. I have absolutely nothing to fucking say to him, but I know he has plenty to say to me, so I wait some more.

“Finish that shit, the hockey stuff. Come and work for the family business and get your money.”

“Why does it matter if I work for the business?” I ask. “That money isn’t yours or anyone else’s to give me. It’s mine on my twenty-fifth birthday. I was born into this family, so, therefore, it’s fucking mine,” I grind out the words.

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