Page 92 of Burning Daylight
I look toward the reporters again, my stomach tensing. “Am I talking to them?”
He eyes me thoughtfully for a moment. “Maybe.”
Frederick leans in close, his hand covering his mouth like he’s coughing. I imagine he’s covering his mouth so nobody can decipher what he’s saying. “Marcus, you can’t be serious. He hasn’t hadanymedia training. Who knows what he’ll say?”
“You can stop them from running anything that would be detrimental, can’t you?”
Frederick grits his teeth, his gaze sliding over the reporters. “There’s no guarantee they’ll listen.”
My father hums, nodding along, and he slides his gaze back to me.
It’s more than obvious that he takes Frederick’s advice very seriously.
“Your lack of confidence is inspiring. I’m more than capable of fielding a few questions,” I drawl, giving Frederick a lazy grin.
“Just don’t mention any of the papers you signed,” he snipes.
I shrug. “Sure, why would they care about the new stipulations on my inheritance, anyway?”
Frederick hums noncommittally.
I could give a fuck about what he thinks.
In fact, the only thing I care about is that I can’t get my mind off that article I saw this morning on my way here.
Preston Ascott.Stupid name.
The thought of him with Juliette makes my head swim and my stomach turn.
The woman who was at the podium makes her way to us, her warm brown skin sheening from the heat of the day and her blue pantsuit crisp and straight. She nods at my father, who clears his throat, locks his eyes with me one last time, and then straightens his spine and waltzes to the microphone like the world bends in his favor with every step.
If I didn’t despise him so much, it would almost be inspiring to watch.
“Good afternoon,” he says. “Thank you to everyone for making the time to be here today. As you all are aware, the Montgomery Organization is built on a foundation of family. Trust. Longevity. In fact, it was my great-grandfather who built this town with his own hands. Crafted the very gazebo we’re all standing in front of.” He turns to wave his arm at the structure behind us, his eyes falling on the sign that saysThis park made possible by Calloway Enterprisesin front of it. “Despite others trying to stake the claim.”
His face drops so imperceptibly, I’m sure I’m the only one who notices.
“Some call it nepotism; others call it a foundation of legacy. The truth is, maybe it’s a little of both.”
This earns chuckles from the crowd, and I won’t lie, I’m drawn in.
My father is a fantastic public speaker.
It makes me wonder why he’s the one on the outskirts of town while the Calloways have dipped their hands into everything.
It seems like he’s losing a game he should be a master at playing.
“I know a lot of you have been hoping for some front-page-worthy gossip from me for a long time.” He looks pointedly to a person in the front, standing with a microphone labeledThe Rosebrook Rag.
There’s a shuffling of movement when he pauses and a few clicks of cameras.
My eyes follow the commotion and then lock on Paxton Calloway, who I know now is the oldest son and set to inherit everything that comes with the Calloway name. He’s by himself in a black suit with an open collar, his shoulder leaned against astreetlamp with his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
As if he’s only here to observe along with everyone else.
He’s wearing sunglasses, but I know he’s looking at me.
Something dangerous flashes in my father’s gaze. “I also know thatsomeof you were hoping the Montgomery line would die with me. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint.”
