Page 41 of The Muse
“Can I get you an early supper?” she asks.
“Sure. Whatever you have. I’ve worked up an appetite.”
She offers me a concerned smile but disappears quickly.
I set about pouring my tea. “I didn’t expect you to be here.” He’s never spent this much time at Earlwood before.
“Plans change,” he murmurs. “Have you progressed any further with our previous conversation?” Just like Father, he keeps his eyes downcast. Maybe to avoid looking as judgemental as he sounds.
“And what conversation was that?” I know very well. We’ve not spoken in the past couple of weeks, so he can only mean the last conversation, which covered the hot topic of my career.
“Your review and your career. So far, I see no new publication from the journalist who should have covered your piece rather than that snake, Foxton. So, as per my previous suggestion, I’ll handle it.”
I place my cup back in the saucer before answering him. God, he makes me so mad. “What right do you have to just swoop in and take over like that? Not just with me, but to that reporter as well?”
He finally has the decency to address me properly by lifting his head out of his work. “I have every right. It might not be public until the next quarter, but the ink is dry on the contract. Broderick Media have acquired the controlling share in Foxton’s only business.”
“And you think it’s fair to take over someone’s livelihood like that? What if it was the other way around, huh?”
His eyes draw together as if taken aback by this remark. “We’d never be so foolish as to be in a position where we needed to sell a controlling share in our business. We’ve adapted and changed to the market and grown as a result. Again, Persephone, if you gave any thought to anyone but yourself, you might know some of this.”
“How dare you? How dare you talk to me with so little respect.”
“Well, if you chose to show some, that might help.” His eyes meet mine, and I see the cut-throat lawyer he must have been in the courtroom. The coolness of his entire demeanour seems to blow a chilly draft around the room, leaving no room for heat or passion—for art. But his words have the exact opposite effect on me, and I’m thrown back into the turmoil of emotions from my earlier fight with Scott.
“Respect has to be earned, Landon. You’re nothing but a bully. Preying on the vulnerable to screw them over. Just like you’ve done to Scott.”
Shit.
His name is out of my mouth before I can stop it. Landon’s managed to press all my buttons, and after what happened this morning, everything around this subject is explosive to me.
“Scott?” He raises his eyebrows and turns in his chair. “Why are you on first name terms with Scott Foxton?" Everything about his frame is rigid. As are those unwavering eyes. “In fact, why do you even care about this past getting your review retracted?”
For once, I steel my own glare. “That’s none of your business, Landon. Just like the rest of my life is none of your business, either. You’ve only ever had one objective, and that’s what’s always the top priority for you or for Father. I’ve never graced those dizzying heights, so it shouldn’t matter.”
The tablet he's holding skitters across the table, and with it goes the patience I know he was clinging onto.
“I suggest you take whatever tone it is you're trying for out of this conversation,” he says. “I want an explanation.”
I go to stand, chin higher than it's ever been in front of him. “Tough. We're not in a courtroom now, and you can't strong-arm me into anything. If you gave half a thought to anyone but yourself then—”
“Persephone!” His hand slams on the table, making all the cutlery and crockery jump to attention. “You will tell me what you’ve done.” He stands with me, towering over me with his six-foot-two frame. I don’t care. Not today. I refuse to bow to his intimidation tactics.
My spine snaps ridged with a steely will and keeps me standing before I crumble like I usually would. “I’ve done nothing. It’s you that’s screwed him over.”
“And how would you know that?” He takes a step around the table, closing the distance to mere feet, his fingers tapping on the gleaming mahogany.
“I heard you,” I admit, a little less angrily than I had intended, as guilt seeps into my voice.
“You heard what?”
“You and Father talking. About making Foxton pay? That you offered lower than what the business was worth.”
“And why was that of interest to you? And why are you on first name terms with a fucking Foxton?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I turn away, unable to see a way out of this argument.
