Lily
My eyes bounce around the space as I follow the maître d’.
The pale white walls, sheer drapes, soaring ceiling, and large windows contribute to the airiness of this
gourmet New York restaurant. Unlike so many expensive eateries in the city, it doesn’t have that harsh
modern edge that can be quite off-putting. On the contrary, the décor at Jean-Georges is welcoming.
The coveted restaurant, located near Central Park, is packed. Men in impeccable bespoke suits and
women in their finest couture eat, drink, and laugh.
Your average Tuesday evening in New York City. This is my first time at the three Michelin starred
restaurant. If the wonderful aroma floating in the air and the glimpse of mouthwatering food I caught
along the way are any indication, I’m in for a treat.
My father is sitting at a table near the large windows. He isn’t alone. My face sours a bit when I spot who
he’s with. Oh, God, not her. Is it too late to run? My father’s eyes lock onto mine and he lifts a hand.
Crap. He gets to his feet. So does his irritable side piece, towering over him. Fisher Edgington thinks big,
talks big, deals big, plays big, and lives big. Perhaps God knew his massive ego would be too much to
bear for us mere mortals if it were accompanied by soaring height. To my father’s irritation, he only
stands five-feet-eight––much taller than me, but
significantly shorter than his model-tall girlfriend who has a penchant for wearing five-inch heels.
We reach my father’s table. “Mr. Edgington, your guest has arrived,” the maître d’ says. “I’ll send a
waiter over.”
“Thank you,” my father says. With that, the maître d’ excuses himself with a bow, and moves his
attention to another table.
We stare at each other for a long beat, my eyes bouncing from my father’s icy blue gaze to the brunette
forty years his junior who’s draped around his arm like a poison ivy vine.
My father clears his throat. “I’ll meet you at your place when I’m done with Lily.” He dismisses his
girlfriend.
Thank you, God. In the six weeks I’ve been back to New York, I’ve had to see too much of her for my
liking.
“Nom nom, I can’t wait.” Her voice drips with a suggestive tone. Yuck. “Be good.” My father winks. She
runs her fingers through his salt and p epper hair. “I’ll try, but I can’t promise.”
If this continues, I’m going to have to excuse myself to go to the bathroom and barf.
“Tourelou and toodles, Lily,” she says, wiggling her fingers. One would suffice. No need to double up on
the idiocy. “See you.” I ke ep it brief.
And... she’s off. The scent of my father’s girlfriend’s overpowering perfume still lingers in the air when a
waiter materializes at our table. “May I take your drink order?”
“A Godfather for me and a Perrier pink grapefruit on ice for her.” My father orders on my behalf before I
even have time to open my mouth.
God forbid I’d make my own choice. The waiter’s eyes shift in my direction. I respond with an
imperc eptible nod. “That’s her usual drink.” My father snaps at the waiter. The man nods. “Very well,
sir.”
In no time, he returns with our drinks. Before I even have time to wrap my fingers around the highball,
my father drains half of his drink.
I dip my lips in my Perrier, ready to quench my thirst. “Thanks for joining me,” my father says. “We have
so much to celebrate today.”
I drop my highball on the table and sit a little straighter in my seat. For a second there, I thought he had
forgotten. “It’s official as of today. Chandler is taking his BHAG by the balls.” “Which of Chandler’s big
hairy audacious goals are we talking about?” “My first born is st epping into politics. I’ve been grooming
him for long enough.” He claps before rubbing his hands together. “He’ll be running for mayor of New
York City. That’s the first st ep on his upward trajectory towards the big seat––the presidency.”
My shoulders sag in disappointment. This isn’t why I thought we were meeting tonight. “His decision is
going to have a monumental impact on the family.” The family I’m ostracized from. “You heading the
publicity firm is more important now than ever before,” he says. “We need someone we can trust to craft
Chandler’s image.”
His comment about me heading anything is laughable. Fisher Edgington is the ultimate puppet master. He
pretends to give you control, but he’s the one pulling the strings.
I narrow my eyes. “According to Chandler, I don’t exist. He and my three other half-brothers feel the
same way.” After all, I’m the villainess. “Need I remind you, your sons have treated me like a pariah since
you became my guardian after Mama’s death. So, why on earth would Chandler want me to craft his
political image when he can’t stand the sight of me?”
“A bit dramatic don’t you think?” Ke ep sticking your head in the sand, Father. You excel at it. “Prove me
wrong.” I cross my arms over my chest. “When was the last time any of your sons acknowledged me?”
My father averts his gaze as he pretends to adjust his tie. “Speaking of your future career as the head of a
successful PR company, I found someone who will accompany you to the event in LA.”
“I don’t need a chaperone,” I say.
“You’re not attending that event alone. You’ve never been to Los Angeles—”
“The last time you assigned me a chaperone for Emerson College’s meet-and-greet evening event in
Boston, your contact was caught in a closet with his pants down as a waiter sucked his manhood.” I roll
my stiff shoulders, but they refuse to ease. “When you forced me to attend the University of Texas’s open
house, you assigned a chaperone who k ept asking me—in not-so-subtle ways—if I’d consider
deflowering his eighteen-year-old son, and would it be okay if he watched us in the throes of passion so
he could coach his virgin teenage offspring on how to properly satisfy a woman. He also wanted to know
if I was open to the idea of a threesome with him and his son after I was done deflowering junior to
celebrate the joyous occasion.”
“We’re walking down memory lane.” I ignore his jab and soldier on. “The chaperone you selected for the
Florida State University’s evening had a disturbing flatulence problem.” I thought I was going to
suffocate from the foul smell. “Still, that didn’t stop him from suggesting we swing by his favorite Cuban
restaurant after the event for some Pollo con Arroz Congri with an extra side of beans, before we ended
the evening at his place for a night cap so we could get to know each other better. I’ve had it up to
here”—I gesture a hand over my head —“with your crappy chaperones.”
“Granted, those men had shortcomings I wasn’t aware of—” “You could say that again.” I scoff. “I’m
sure chaperone number four must have a long list of shortcomings you’re unaware of.”
“I’ve cut ties with those former friends,” he says, “because their shortcomings reflect poorly on me.”
It’s all about image with Fisher Edgington. Although, in these cases, I can’t blame him for distancing
himself.
“Gage Hollingsworth isn’t a flake and he knows how to conduct himself at an event,” he says. “The man
has a r eputation to uphold. And to my knowledge, he doesn’t pass wind in public. Also, at his size, he’s
more of a bodyguard than a chaperone. The man is built like a brick wall.”
“The answer is still no.” “Lily, this isn’t up for discussion.” His firm answer has the same effect as a judge
slamming his gavel on a desk.
Any other day I’d move onto another topic, one that wouldn’t put me on his bad side. But today isn’t any
other day.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “When you said you wanted to meet tonight because we had so much to
celebrate, I never suspected we’d be discussing Chandler’s political career, and you forcing, yet again,
another dirty old man down my throat. I was expecting something else.”
He frowns. I throw him a bone. “Something pertaining to me.” He straightens the sleeves of his
impeccable, bespoke navy-blue suit before adjusting his yellow tie, again. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t think of anything else worth celebrating today?” The furrow between his neatly groomed
brows remains. “No.” A world of emotion swirls inside me like filth floating over the waters of a polluted
swamp.
Flabbergasted, I gape at him. He has no clue what I’m talking about. A lump the size of my fist rises in
my throat. “Think harder.” The blank stare on his face speaks volumes. The lump grows, threatening to
choke me. I search the restaurant for our waiter. He catches my gaze and rushes towards our table. “What
can I get you, miss?”
“What’s going on, Lily?” I focus my attention on the expectant waiter. I swallow past the lump. “Two
glasses of your best champagne, please.”
“What the hell are you doing?” My father’s tone is sharp. “This isn’t Europe. You’re not of drinking age
yet.”
Confusion flashes in the waiter’s eyes. I rummage through my bag, pull out my driver’s license, and hand
it to the waiter.
He checks it with care. “Happy Birthday!” he says, meeting my gaze. “I get to serve you your first drink.”
From the corner of my eyes, I notice my father flinch. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He does that a
few times. No comments from the peanut gallery.
Still, the unvoiced criticism comes out loud and clear. “My first drink in the US.” The waiter hands me
my driver’s license. “Our best champagne coming right up.”
“Thank you.” The waiter scurries off. Aware of my father’s stare, I take my sweet time placing my
driver’s license in the inside pocket of my bag.
“What the hell was that about?” I meet his angry, icy blue eyes, r eproach shines bright in them. A war of
glares ensues. He forgot. I’m dumbfounded. “It’s my birthday today,” I say after a long beat. “I’m
twenty-one.” Sparks of outrage shoot from his eyes. “Why not come out and announce it’s your damn
birthday instead of playing your silly little games? Your childish theatrics are unnecessary.”
Ouch. I’m stunned, humiliated, and hurt by his vitriolic comment. “Why didn’t you remind me?” I let out
a self-d eprecating laugh. “Did you forget your sons’ twenty-first birthdays?”
The corner of his upper lip pulls up, his discontentment evident. It’s dangerous to poke the bear,
especially when you d epend financially on said bear.
Fuck it. I catch sight of the waiter approaching our table, balancing two champagne flutes on a tray, and
lift a hand to stop him from taking another st ep.
He freezes in place. Reaching for the dignity I too often suppress in the hopes this man who I share DNA
with would recognize me as his daughter instead of a mistake, I get to my feet.
My father’s eyes fly up to meet mine. “Where the hell are you going?” For a man who’s so in-tune when
it comes to business, he’s dumb as a rock when it comes to people.
“I get you’d rather I was never born.” I bite down tears. “I thought after so many years, you’d find it in
your heart to acc ept me.” Even love me.
“Lily—” “Don’t Lily me.” All eyes are on us. I can feel it. I hate calling attention to myself, but fuck it if
I’m making a spectacle. “It’s your turn to listen.” I point at him. “I’m not expecting you to”—my voice
cracks—“love me like you love your sons, but at the very least, respect me. You have two executive
assistants and one personal assistant who takes care of your social calendar—”
“You know full well—” “Don’t you dare use the convenient excuse of them being new hires.” His
propensity for always finding a s capegoat is baffling. Working for my father isn’t all rainbows and
sunshine. Employee turnover is as common as huge profit in his world.
He pinches his lips. Yeah, I saw you coming a mile away. He averts his gaze for the briefest moment, no
doubt racking his brain for a clever retort.
He returns his attention to me, his expression more annoyed than ever. I dig de ep. “Your assistants aren’t
my parents. You are.” I point an accusatory finger at him. “They shouldn’t be the ones managing that part
of your life. If you can’t remember my birthday without someone you pay reminding you, it tells me you
value me less than gum under your shoe.” I’ve never seen my father speechless. “My best friend is the
only one who acknowledged my birthday—and she lives an ocean away. I didn’t get so much as a text
from the people I’m related to by blood, aka you or your sons.”
“You should’ve—” “Own up to the egregious error, Father.” I throw one of his favorite big words in his
face.
His expression turns baffled, as though he doesn’t know what to make of me or my tirade. “Enough with
the Broadway act.” He has the audacity to chastise me. “Sit down, and let’s have dinner like civilized
people.”
I don’t give a damn about the warning in his voice. I stare him down, mustering up my courage. “In your
world, I have little to no importance. When business isn’t consuming you, your sons are deserving of your
attention, care, and pride.” And love. “You’ve made it clear over and over
again, but never as cruelly as today.” I snatch my bag off the table and tuck it underneath my arm.
He lets out an audible sigh. He doesn’t approve of my little performance. I don’t approve of his
indifference. I square my shoulders and stare straight into my father’s eyes. “Enjoy the rest of your
evening with your girlfriend. Even she gets to make it on your list of priorities.”
I get the hell out of the restaurant like the building is on fire. I refuse to give Fisher Edgington the
satisfaction of seeing me cry.
I should’ve k ept my expectations low for tonight––I knew it from experience. And yet, my stupid heart
had hoped. And now my stupid heart is broken. Again.