Page 2 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

I want to forget everything he just said, but I follow him anyway. Before I can blink, Dad’s practiced smile is in front of my face.

“Thatcher,” he exclaims in his usual false way, his eyes narrowing as he takes me in. Probably peeved at my lack of a tie.

He drags me closer, his grip on my shoulder strong. Archie flashes me a look before disappearing back into the crowd, his work done.

I’ll get him back for this.

My attention returns when my dad starts making introductions. “This is Thatcher, my youngest son.” He claps me on the back. “He goes to Blackridge, full hockey scholarship.” He sounds like a proud father, but I know better.

Wanting this to go faster, I thrust my hand out at the nearest old geezer. “Nice to meet you.”

The man accepts my hand with a corporate smile. “Edward Walsh.”

To my father, he says, “Fine young man you have there, John.”

Dad’s responding laugh grates on my already raw nerves, I don’t have time for this.

I exchange pleasantries and force smiles with the rest of the group before muttering under my breath to my father, “Can I go now? How much ass kissing do I have to do?”

I need to see her.

“Stay,” he hisses back, his smile intact.

Anger blooms hot in my chest and my hand curls into a fist, ready to smash into his face, but his next words stop me. “You’re not going anywhere.”

AKA Don’t fucking move from that spot or else.

I roll my eyes discreetly and swallow down the retort ready on my tongue. It’s no use fighting him, especially in front of a crowd like this.

“Edward, don’t you have a daughter starting at Blackridge too? Is she here? Why don’t you bring her over,” he says, turning to the man beside me.

The man in question nods, moving off into the crowd, presumably to find his daughter.

Dad continues conversing with the rest of the group, his mask of a perfect, benevolent businessman flawlessly in place. I watch as he laughs and gestures when someone compliments him, disgust building at his obvious fake demeanor.

If only they knew how coldly calculating he is, how he uses them for his benefit, butters them up with lavish parties, nice words, and money, all to get his way.

And it always works.

Even on Mom.

She was blinded by his charm, by the allure of the life he promised — a life of luxury and comfort, where every problem could be smoothed over with a smile and a signature on a check.

But I knew better. I’d seen the cracks beneath the polished surface. The way he manipulated, controlled, and played everyone like pieces on a chessboard. Mom thought he loved her, but to him, she was just another pawn, easily discarded when no longer useful.

He didn’t bat an eye when the police came to inform him about Mom’s suicide. ‘Tragic,’ he said, before he continued about his day, as if something truly tragic didn’t happen. As if his wife and the mother of his children didn’t overdose on sleeping pills.

It didn’t matter because everything was a game to him.

And I am his heir to the game. Whether I like it or not.

It isn’t just about inheriting the wealth, the company, or the family name. It’s about becoming like him. A master manipulator, someone who knows how to pull the strings from behind the scenes without ever getting their hands dirty. I’m groomed for this. Every conversation, every event, every person I meet has a purpose. I’m expected to observe, to learn how to bend people’s wills without them even realizing it.

But it comes with a price. Every lesson he teaches chips away at the humanity inside me. The more I follow in his footsteps, the more I feel trapped in his shadow, a reflection of everything I despise. He is molding me into his image, and I hate him for it, but I can’t break free.

Because to him, I’m not just his son. I’m his successor. His project.

And I am sick of it.

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