Page 72 of Worth

“Ye—Yes, si—sir,” the voice stammers back. “Right away.”

The line goes dead before I can say anymore. I grip my phone, the need to chuck it across the room strong. I take a deep breath. The last thing I need is to lose communication because I once again threw my phone across the room and shattered it.

Deep breaths.

The elevator at my back that opens into my penthouse, dings as it announces a visitor. I whirl, hoping it’s news, and am greeted with the sight of my father and his newest bimbo. I should be kinder. After all, she has to live with my father and his…proclivities. She might be the same age as Blake, but seeing how the package includes zero brain cells and tits so big and fake that they have their own zip code? That has a way of causing you to make judgement calls about a person when you don’t even know them that well.

“Oooh, it’s so shiny in here,” she says, punctuating her sentence with a bubble blown from the wad of Hubba Bubba in her mouth. It pops loud enough to sound like a muffled gunshot and she lets out a little shriek as the noiseshe madestartles her.

Case in point.

I tuck the hand holding the still behind me as Father sloughs her off his arm, ignoring her when she stumbles in the stilettos she’s teetering on. I count backwards from five in my head as he approaches, letting indifference filter into me even though I want to do nothing but kick his ass out of my place so I can focus on finding Blake.

“This is a nice surprise,” I say coolly. “The guards aren’t supposed to let anyone up without permission from me directly.”

Father smirks, stopping a few feet away from me. “Mordecai, come on now. We both know that the guards won’t deny me anything. I pay their wages.”

I bristle. He might sign the checks, but I’m the one bringing in all the backing into this Lab. That’s a useless fight, though, and I want him out now. Fighting with him about it will only delay my search for Blake more.

“Well,” I say, gesturing my arms wide. I don’t manage to hide the contempt from my voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can a man not visit his son?” he asks, taking on a wounded voice. “Do you hear that, Nancy? My own son doesn’t want me around.”

I roll eyes as Nancy rushes forward to coo over him and shoot me dirty looks while she does it. After about ten seconds of that, Father shoos her away, grinning at me.

“Come on, boy. When’s the last time we just had a drink and the chance to chat about our lives?”

I snort. “Never. We’ve never done that. Ever.”

Father claps me on the shoulder, shoving me toward the kitchen. “Well, we’re going to do thatnow.”

My self-preservation flares as his hand grips tighter, my feet shuffling forward. I can’t figure out what he wants. I can’t recall the last time he came to my home—if ever. Which means something bad is about to happen.

I don’t fucking have time for this. Blake needs me.

He forces me into one of the bar stools in the kitchen under the guise of a friendly drink, finding us both a tumbler and the bottle of bourbon I keep. He hands mine over and I set it in front of me without taking a drink, hyperalert. I hear Nancy’s shoes clack as she wobbles into the kitchen and Father jerks out his hand, lightning fast, pointing at the kitchen table on the other side of the kitchen. He snaps his fingers, and she alters her direction without acknowledging him, settling in at the table.

I shake my head before I can stop myself. “Is she your dog or your wife?”

He snickers. “You’ll learn one day, Mo. Woman are so easily commanded because they’re all little bitches who need to be taught a lesson.”

“Like my mother?” I snap.

Father’s expression goes cold. “Your mother was the dumbest bitch I ever owned. Dumber than Nancy, here.”

“Huh?” Nancy says, looking up from her phone. “Did you call me?”

He ignores her. “The last time you brought her up, do you remember what I did?”

The only sign of reaction I give him is a tick of my jaw. “Yes.”

A gleam enters his eye. “You remember the pictures I showed you?”

Nausea grows in the pit of my stomach, remembering the pictures of him torturing my mother because she tried to escape him. I had been seven and simply curious about who my mother was. “Yes.”

“The pictures I took of your mother while she was—”

“Yes, goddammit! I remember, okay?” I shout, standing up and shoving the barstool back. My phone clatters to the counter with my movement.

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