Page 8 of P.S. I Dare You

I’d expect nothing less.

There’s a confident sway in Marta’s walk, which is ironic considering how she constantly sounds like she’s in desperate need of a Xanax.

She raps three times on the door when we arrive, and then she shows herself in.

“Mr. Welles, your son is here,” she says before holding the door wide and waving for me to come in. “Let me know if you need anything at all.”

My father’s expression is frozen as he studies me. And he remains seated at his desk, which is fine. We’re not men who hug and if we were, we certainly would not hug each other.

“C.J.,” he says, rising and smoothing his red tie.

It’s been a solid decade since anyone’s called me C.J.

Calder Junior … my father’s little nickname for me growing up. My mother always called me C.J. as well. She said it was the easiest way to differentiate between the two of us.

And she thought it was cute.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” He points to the olive green suede guest chair across from him.

Flattening my lips and exhaling, I take a seat so we can get this shit show over with.

The only reason I’m here is because I’m curious as to what pressing matters of his estate he’d need to discuss with me in person.

Maybe it’s a setup. Maybe he cast his reel and I took the bait. But no matter because he still can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do.

“It’s good to see you, son,” he says, taking his seat.

The bags under his eyes suggest exhaustion, and the skin on his hands is thinner than I remember, showing every purple-blue vein, but other than that, he looks the way I remembered—like an old, rich white man. I’m convinced in the end, they all look exactly the same.

But he doesn’t look like a dying man. There’s color in his cheeks and his eyes are clear. And he’s here, isn’t he? Clocking in some hours?

“Thank you for coming. I know the choice wasn’t easy for you,” he says. My father isn’t dumb. He thinks that thanking me and acknowledging that he knows the decision to come today was mine is going to soften me, but he’s wrong.

“What did you need to discuss with me?”

His thin lips curl for a moment before his expression returns to its former state. “Right. I suppose we should get on with this. I’m sure you have places to go, people to see.”

“I do.”

His beady blue eyes capture mine from across his glass-topped desk. “I wanted to talk to you about taking over WellesTech Media.”

“Absolutely not.” My jaw clenches.

“C.J.” His head tilts to the side and he chuckles, but this is not a joke. “I’ve built this … this empire … for you.”

“Bullshit.”

“This is my legacy we’re talking about. Your birthright. Marta told you I’m—”

“—yes, but that doesn’t change anything.” I feel myself glaring, unable to release the tightness in my face.

My father leans back in his chair, the leather creaking, and drags his wrinkled hand across his chin as he studies me.

“Here’s the thing, C.J.,” he says. “If you don’t want WellesTech, fine. But I’ll be forced to sell it. And as you know, this company is worth billions, so the pool of prospective buyers is naturally on the smaller side.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding someone.”

“You see, that’s the thing. I already have.” He leans forward, his elbows on the desktop. A freshly stocked cup of his favorite gold pens rests to his right, crammed almost too full. “It’s the Samuelson-Barnes Group.”

I don’t see my father anymore.

I see red.

Rising, I shove the chair away and head to the door, but when I get there, I stop cold in my tracks, a balled fist in the air.

Turning to him, I ask, “Why? Why would you so much as consider that?”

“They’ve been wanting to buy us out for years,” he says.

Us.

Like WellesTech has anything to do with me.

“And they’ve made an incredibly generous offer,” he adds. “One I would be remiss to turn down.”

“So that’s why you brought me here? To give me an ultimatum? Take over WellesTech or you’ll sell it to the company that was singlehandedly responsible for the death of my mother.”

“I know it looks bad, but you need to understand, I’ve—”

I strike my hand through the air before turning my back to him. “I don’t give a shit what your reasons are.”

Gripping the door, I pull in a hard breath, letting it linger in my chest as I wrap my head around what this means and where this leaves me.

If I take over the company, I can sell it to whomever I want. But that means I’ll be forced to learn how to run it, familiarize myself with the day-to-day operations and then some. I’ll have to spend day in and day out shadowing my father—a living nightmare of sorts.

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