Page 31 of Price of Victory
The memory of Rhett’s face in the heat of passion was burned into my mind with startling clarity. Not just the physical beauty of it, though that had been devastating enough, but thevulnerability he’d shown me. The trust. He’d let me see him completely undone, had given himself over to me in a way that felt significant beyond just physical pleasure.
And I had no idea what to do with that.
I dragged myself out of bed, muscles still loose and satisfied from the night before, and padded to the kitchen without bothering to get dressed. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty, like it was echoing with everything I couldn’t process. My phone sat on the marble countertop where I’d left it when I’d gotten home, and I studiously avoided looking at it.
I was afraid there might be a good-morning message from Rhett, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I’d never been particularly good at the day after, at navigating the awkward territory that followed a hookup. Most of the time, the guys I slept with left right after we were finished, or I did what I’d done last night and slipped out while they were still processing what had happened. It was cleaner that way. Simpler.
No expectations, no complications, no messy emotions to untangle.
But this felt different, and that scared the hell out of me.
I opened a cabinet and pulled out a box of cereal, some overpriced organic thing that my housekeeper had stocked the kitchen with. The milk was fresh, the bowl was clean, everything in my life was perfectly organized and controlled. So why did I feel like I was spiraling?
The cereal tasted like cardboard, but I ate it anyway, chewing mechanically while I stared out at the Chicago skyline. The city looked the same as it always did, busy and indifferent, people going about their lives without any awareness that mine had shifted fundamentally sometime around midnight last night.
I was halfway through the bowl when my phone started ringing, the sound cutting through the quiet like an alarm. For a moment, I considered letting it go to voicemail, but the ringtonetold me it was my mother, and ignoring her calls was never a good idea.
I picked up with a heavy heart, bracing myself for whatever crisis or guilt trip was about to be dumped on me.
“Aiden, sweetheart, I’m so glad you answered.”
Her voice sounded normal, which was simultaneously a relief and somehow more unsettling. I’d been expecting panic, tears, bad news about my father’s condition. Instead, she sounded like she was calling to chat about the weather.
“Hi, Mom. How are you?”
“I’m fine, dear. Just calling to check in. You’ve been so busy with school, and I know you’re probably overwhelmed with everything.”
“I’m managing. How’s Dad?”
There was a pause, just long enough for my stomach to clench with worry. “He’s recovering well. The doctors are pleased with his progress, and he’s been following all their recommendations about diet and exercise.”
“That’s good. That’s really good.” I set down my spoon, appetite gone. “Is he at home?”
“Yes. He’s comfortable, getting plenty of rest. He’d love to see you, you know. He asks about you every day.”
The guilt hit me across the face. I hadn’t even called, let alone visited. What kind of son did that make me? “I’m sorry, Mom. I should have been there. I should have made time.”
“You’re busy with your final year, I understand. But Aiden, there are things you need to start learning. Sooner is better than later.”
“But if he’s recovering well, he’ll be back to work soon, right? He’ll be running things for years to come.”
Another pause, this one longer and more pointed. “Aiden, this wasn’t a nasty flu. Your father had a heart attack. A seriousone. Even if he makes a full recovery, he needs to change his entire lifestyle. Less stress, fewer hours, different priorities.”
The implication hung in the air between us, unspoken but perfectly clear. My father’s heart attack meant changes for all of us, and those changes included me stepping up to take on responsibilities I’d been avoiding for years.
“I understand,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I did. Not really.
“Do you? Because your father has been building this company for thirty years, and he’s not going to live forever. Someone needs to be prepared to take over when the time comes.”
I found myself thinking about those hostile takeover attempts, the corporate warfare that had defined so much of my father’s career. The late nights, the eighteen-hour days, the constant stress that had probably contributed to his heart attack in the first place. Was that really what I wanted? Was that the life I was supposed to inherit?
“The Morrison situation was just business,” I said, more to myself than to her. “Dad was just doing what he had to do to protect the company.”
“Of course it was just business. That’s how these things work, Aiden. You can’t take it personally.”
But I was taking it personally. More than I wanted to admit. Last night had changed something fundamental about how I saw the rivalry between our families, had made it impossible to think of Rhett as just collateral damage in my father’s business strategies.
“I know,” I said. “I just…sometimes I think maybe Dad takes on more than he needs to. Gets involved in things that create unnecessary stress.”
