Sage
I drove straight to my father’s estate, tires screeching into the long driveway as if the car itself could feel the rage boiling in my veins. The gates opened automatically—always open for me, the perfect son—and I didn’t slow down until I skidded to a stop outside the main house.
I didn’t knock.
I burst through the front door, boots pounding across marble floors, straight to his study. The double doors were half-open; I shoved them wide.
He was already waiting.
Sitting behind his massive oak desk, a glass of whiskey in hand, he looked up with a calm, almost amused smile.
“Hey, son,” he said, voice smooth. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
The casual greeting snapped something inside me.
I crossed the room in two strides, grabbed him by the collar of his crisp shirt, and yanked him
