Page 73 of Ravage

I became the society.

A virus, infecting their pride and joy from the inside-out.

As I enter the foyer, I notice that Arthur's door is wide open. Dorothea jumps in her seat, quickly standing when she spots me.

"You're not supposed to be out here," she scolds, but her words fall flat, coated in fear.

"Shut that dick-gurgling flytrap, Dorothea," I reply casually. "I'm in no mood to deal with you."

I can't see Arthur despite his door being open. He's blocked by a wide-shouldered body—a man standing in front of his desk. I recognize that physique anywhere.

"Well, isn't this just charming?" I sneer, watching as he turns around slowly, anger present on his aging features.

"Damon."

My father stands unfazed, glaring at me as Arthur rises from his chair. The two of them subconsciously straighten up, hoping to intimidate me with their slightly shorter frames.

"I should have known you'd be snooping around," I direct at my father. "Let me guess—there was a bit of a financial setback."

Arthur's fists curl on his desk as he pushes his weight into it. "We're not surprised that you had something to do with it."

I shrug. "I'm not sure what you are referring to. But it must be serious if the great Alexander Dale is making a house call."

"Watch your tone, boy," my father snaps. "I'm in no mood to deal with it."

"That makes two of us," I reply, amused that I just uttered the same words to Dorothea—the apple never falls far from the tree. "But if you're here to discuss business, then I should be involved, no?"

Walking over, I kick one of the guest chairs to the side of the room, sitting down on it. I smile at them, placing my forearms on the armrests as I strum my fingers.

"This doesn't concern you," Arthur spits out. "And I'm fed up with you waltzing around the facility as you please."

"I'm fed up with your existence," I sharply reply. "But alas, we're stuck with each other." Turning to my father, I raise an eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you plan on releasing me?"

My father's cheeks flush red—hopefully a sign of high blood pressure. "You cost the facility hundreds of thousands of dollars with your stunt."

"Oh, no. What a tragedy," I groan sarcastically. "How will you manage?"

Reaching into his briefcase, my father pulls out a stack of paperwork, flinging it into my lap. I calmly pick it up, scanning the front page. "Court proceedings? My, my. Bringing out the big guns."

My eyes hover over the words on the document. My father is seeking a court order to amend my trust, effectively immediately.

At the moment, he is unable to access money from it while I am deemed mentally incapacitated unless it's for specific reasons pertaining to my sole wellbeing and benefit. According to the documents, the facility needs to access the money so that it can stay open—for my benefit, wellbeing, and the greater good of the community.

As I read on, finding the section on supporting evidence, I snort. Glancing up at him, I raise an eyebrow mockingly. "You lost the contract."

"Not yet," Arthur interjects angrily. "But unless we pay for new equipment to replace what your lapdog broke, they are terminating the agreement."

I toss the papers onto the ground at my father's feet. "That seems very much like a you problem. You are aware as much as I am that you can't pull the funds from the trust. A judge willnever approve this. Guess you'll have to fund it yourself. Maybe sell the Porsche and your vacation house in the Hamptons."

See—I can play nice. Look at me providing financial advice.

"Actually," my father starts, sounding eerily confident. "Our matter was listed on Judge Balknac's docket. You remember him—he's an old friend of mine."

Sadly, Idoremember Richard Balknac. Mainly because I used to call him Dick Ball Sack. With a name like that, it's hard to forget.

"So, you bribed a judge," I point out in a bored tone. "Not surprised in the least."

"I did no such thing," he refutes. "But he is familiar with our charity work and howimportantit is that we stay in operation."

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