Why do you not explain why you sent your girlfriend to a fake therapist

Why do you not explain why you sent your girlfriend to a fake therapist
Richard’s pov

We brought Violet back to The Grand. I had my secretary secure the penthouse suite for us again, a place that held good memories for us, a space I hoped would feel like a small sanctuary to her now. I made sure the kitchen was stocked with all her favorite vegan foods.

Even so, she looked drained as she sank onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes. The aftermath of her allergic reaction was still visible in the slight swelling of her face and the dark shadows under her eyes, a lingering effect of the medication and the trauma.

God, I would have given anything to take that pain from her.

Michael settled beside her, pulling her feet into his lap and starting one of his legendary foot massages. I carried her bags into the master bedroom, the one the three of us would share. I thought about unpacking for her, but I stopped myself. Maybe arranging her own things would give her a small sense of control back.

I went into the second bedroom and positioned her two teddy bears on the bed, setting the big, floppy one so it was holding the smaller joker-bear. A small gesture, but I hoped it would make her smile.

Back in the living area, I drew her into my arms, cradling her while Michael worked on her feet. “Is there anything you would like to do?” I asked her. “We could find a movie, or watch something on television.”

She made a face. “No, thank you. I have been staring at a hospital television all day.”

I knew the hotel had other options, a gym, a pool, but the doctor had been clear she needed to rest. “There is a writing desk,” I said, pointing to the work area in the corner. “We can set up a proper space for you there, so you do not have to work from the bed.”

She offered me a faint, tired smile. “That will be nice.” Her fingers plucked absently at my t-shirt. “Richard?”

“Yes, Darling?”

“I want to be there.”

“Be where?”

“When you confront your father.” She lifted those wide, serious eyes to mine. “I need to be in that room. I need to hear what he says for myself.”

I turned the request over in my mind. My primary concern was her safety, both physical and emotional. I did not expect my father to become violent, but the man had revealed a capacity for deception I never knew he possessed. With Michael, Nash Turner, and our lawyer present, however, she would be protected. I stroked her hair. “Are you completely sure?” I asked gently. “It could become very ugly.”

The look she gave me was pure steel, a reminder of the woman who could flip a grown man with terrifying ease.

“Okay, okay,” I surrendered. “You are right. You should be there. You, more than anyone, deserve to hear the truth from his mouth.”

“Assuming he actually tells the truth,” Michael muttered from his end of the couch.

I shook my head. Two months ago, I would have sworn my father was one of the most honest men alive. He preached about integrity, about a black-and-white world with no room for lies. He drilled that into me and Michael from the time we could talk. It was a fucking classic case of “do as I say, not as I do.”

I could only imagine what other secrets he was keeping.

“We arranged the meeting for seven o’clock at the house,” I told her.

She nodded. “Okay. I will be ready.” She glanced at the clock; it was already half-past four. With a sigh, she pulled her feet from Michael’s grasp. “I am going to take a shower.”

She stayed in the large bathroom for a long time. When she emerged, she was dressed in her usual uniform of leggings, a t-shirt, and that ubiquitous grey hoodie. It was far too warm for a sweater, but I understood she drew a sense of armor from its bulk.

We took two vehicles. Violet rode with me in the Impala, while Michael drove his truck. Nash had dropped off Violet’s car at the hotel earlier so it would be available to her, but I thought it was better if one of us drove her to this meeting, in case she was too shaken to drive herself back.

She was quiet and rigid during the drive down the mountain, through Rutberg, and out to the suburbs. Her expression turned to stone as we approached the security gate.

Nash was waiting for us. “Your father called. He wants to be notified the moment you arrive.”

“Is that right.”

“Yes.”

“Then notify him.”

Nash gave a hand signal to the guard, who responded with a thumbs-up. “Your lawyer is already here. He is waiting in the driveway.”

“Good.” My grip on the steering wheel turned white-knuckled. “I guess it is showtime.”

I drove up the long driveway but did not open the garage. Instead, I parked next to Brooks’s shiny Lexus. Michael pulled up on the other side, blocking the door with his massive truck. We moved toward the entrance as a unit.

“He has the security system disarmed,” Turner noted quietly as we stepped inside. “Interesting.”

I was not sure what I expected to find. Perhaps my father pacing, wracked with guilt. Instead, he was seated at the dining table with a half-finished slice of pie and a cup of coffee, his face hidden behind the New York Times.

“Dad.”

He took a maddeningly long time to lower the newspaper, fold it with deliberate care, and set it aside. He was dressed in his standard uniform: a long-sleeved shirt, dress pants, and a proper navy tie. Evelyn was wiping the counter, but she went still, her hand clutching the rag as we filed into the room. Her eyes found Violet, and she looked momentarily relieved, but that quickly dissolved into deep anxiety.

“Violet? What is happening?”

Violet gave her mother a cool, dismissive glance. “We are here to speak with Professor Kingsley.”

My father gave us an irritated look. “What is this supposed to be?” He eyed Nash and our lawyer with distaste. “A show of force?”

Bentley Brooks smoothly took control. “If the situation requires it. Do you mind if we sit?” He did not wait for an answer, pulling out a chair for himself. I held a chair for Violet, then took a position standing behind her. Sitting was not an option. Michael sat on her other side. Nash positioned himself near the door, his posture deceptively relaxed, but I saw he had the safety strap on his holster open, his hand resting near his weapon.

Evelyn hovered uncertainly behind my father.

My father glanced back at her. “Evelyn, my love, why do you not go upstairs…”

“No,” I cut in. “I think she should stay. I believe she needs to be part of this conversation.”

“Look, if this is about last night, it was an unfortunate accident,” Bennett began, his tone perfectly calm and reasonable. “Violet is clearly fine. Let us not make a spectacle of this.”

“Really.” Michael’s voice was a low growl. “You think that is all this is?”

“So,” Bentley said, clapping his hands together with a grin that suggested he was about to be entertained. “Who would like to begin?”

“You could begin by telling me what the hell you are all doing in my house,” my father said, glaring at me. But the look on his face was not one of surprise. He knew exactly why we were there.

“I will start.” Michael crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Why do you not explain why you sent your girlfriend to a fake therapist.”

“A fake? What is he talking about?” Evelyn asked, utterly baffled.

“Your therapist is Dad’s teaching assistant,” I stated flatly. “He has no degree. No license.”

“But…” Evelyn looked from Michael, to my father, to Violet. Her confused gaze finally settled on my father. “Bennett, is that true?”

Bennett stiffened, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It is true, Evelyn, but I was only trying to help you. There were things you needed to hear from an impartial party that you would not accept from me. Look how much Dorsky has helped you these last few weeks!”

“Things Evelyn needed to hear?” I scoffed. “Like that she should poison her own daughter with a known allergen?”

My father waved a dismissive hand. “That was a simple accident.”

“What about my father?” Violet’s voice was clear and sharp. “Are you going to say his death was an accident, too?”

“Of course not.” My father looked offended. “A suicide is not an accident. But I fail to see how Brian’s death is relevant here.”

“Of course it is relevant!” Violet leaned forward. “Does my mother know that you work for the same research company my father worked for before he died?”

Evelyn looked startled, then gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Well, of course I know, honey. We were all friends back then. You probably do not remember, but Bennett came to our house many times.” She leaned into my father, wrapping her hand around his arm, seemingly having already forgiven his deception about the therapist.

My father gave Violet a severe look. “Young lady, I realize you have significant trauma regarding your father’s death. That is understandable. However, it is profoundly unfair of you to continue disrupting your mother’s life with these childish obsessions. You need to let this go and allow everyone to move on.”


Author's note:
Please try my other book:
Just One Night Got Me Pregnant