Page 2 of Cruel Existence

The black Escalade pulled up under the portico. I heard the water splash in the outdoor fountain as soon as the handle was unlocked, and I stepped onto the paver stones.

One of the new maids nodded as I strolled through the foyer. I thought I saw her curtsy. I’d say something about that another time. The house was built in the early 1900s. There were high ceilings and opulent hand-carved molding on the walls. It still contained the original pulley-system elevator and box of bells in the kitchen that was used to summon servants.

It was incredible that in less than a week my father and I occupied the house without a trace of a box or piece of brown wrapping paper. He liked these things. The lead-glass windows. The history of the house. The thick columns out front and the gardens on the grounds. The elevator was a talking point over cigars and brandy. The history of the house was a way to establish prominence. A foothold into New Orleans social circles.

I walked into my father’s study, flanked by my bodyguards. He was on the phone. I wasn’t sure he noticed I had entered until he held a finger up to warn me against speaking. I fiddled with my phone until he was finished.

His eyes landed on me. I refused to squirm in the seat. My father wasn’t a large man, but he had the kind of gaze that was imposing. Threatening. Dark. His light brown eyes were as menacing as any set of black coal irises. He had a thin frame that he dressed in expensive Italian suits. I’d never seen my father’s hair out of place or a stain on his shirt.

It wasn’t until the bodyguards exited that he broke the silence.

I slurped from the coffee cup.

“Amara.” His finger tapped on the oversized desk.

“Yes?” My eyebrows rose. I realized my mistake when the headache pinched together at my temple. “You needed me for something? Are you okay? Are you feeling all right?”

“You know exactly why you’re here.”

I shrugged. “I don’t want to guess.”

His scowl had cut down men three times my size. Yet, I still pushed boundaries. I tested him. I looked for ways to press his buttons. I created these situations, and I hated them. Sometimes I thought I hated him. I hated my own father.

“We’ve been in New Orleans exactly one week, and you’ve already become cheap gossip.”

I blinked. “I don’t like those words. Cheap gossip? What does that even mean?”

His cheeks began to redden. “It means you have embarrassed me. You have no regard for who I am. Our family name.” Hispalms flattened into the mahogany desktop. “There are pictures of you dancing on a pool table. Do you even play pool?”

I swallowed hard. “No.”

“Then why were you on top of one?” he asked.

I couldn’t stand the glare. I flinched for a second. But it was long enough that I lost the edge I had. I felt my stomach flip and my lungs strain for air. My palms became sweaty.

“You told me to socialize. I socialized.” My defiance was cracking.

“You were drunk, weren’t you?”

I used the manicured point of my thumbnail to carve my initials into the coffee cup.

“Answer me,” he growled.

“Yes. I had too many glasses of champagne,” I lied. I’d had shots of Fireball and some other hideous mix of liquor in a shot glass. “Okay? Is that all?” I began to rise to my feet. “I didn’t even know anyone there. They didn’t even ask my name.” That was a lie. I had given everyone a fake name last night when they asked normal getting-to-know-the-new-girl questions. I didn’t want to be tied to my father in any way.

Last night I had felt normal, surrounded by college students, doing what twenty-somethings do—getting drunk and dancing.

“Sit,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “They know who you are now. The most embarrassing, worst version of you.”

“Papa, I’m not sixteen. This seems dramatic, even for you. It was a harmless party.”

“No, you’re not a teenager any longer. You’re acting like a spoiled princess at the age of twenty-one,” he seethed. “Amara, we have uprooted the entire business. I am establishing myself in New Orleans. You are part of this venture. A crucial part. You can’t get drunk and dance on pool tables. There are pictures of your night out. I have clients who could see you. What in the hell were you thinking?”

“Okay. So, this is about you.”

“It’s always about me.” Our eyes met, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold the posturing. My eyes stung, and my mouth went dry. “I hold the keys to your future. I am the one to pass on your fortune. I keep you safe. I am the head of this family. Damn it. You have no respect. None. And there is a consequence for this utter lack of respect.”

I jerked my head to the side. I didn’t want to see when his fist pounded the table, knocking a teacup to the floor. My eyes closed and I held my breath. The china met the hardwood and I heard the crack of fine porcelain.

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