I hung up and stared at the phone in my hand, suddenly feeling very tired. Three years of carefully constructed boundaries, of separate bank accounts and different last nameson class rosters, of polite excuses and missed family dinners—all of it threatened by my father's latest power play.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and headed toward my apartment off-campus. The walk helped clear my head, the rhythm of my boots against the pavement a steady counterpoint to the chaos in my mind.
My apartment was on the third floor of a renovated brownstone—small, expensive, and mine. I'd paid for it myself with money from my mother's trust fund, the only inheritance I'd accepted from the O'Sullivan name. It wasn't much by their standards, but it was enough to keep me independent.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside, dropping my bag by the entrance. The space was minimal but warm—bookshelves lining the walls, a small kitchen with actual groceries (a point of pride), and the baby grand piano by the window. My sanctuary.
I kicked off my boots and padded to the kitchen, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge. It was barely 4 PM, but family calls warranted day drinking. I poured a generous glass and took a long sip, letting the cold pinot grigio wash away the taste of anxiety.
My phone rang exactly at 6 PM. My father was nothing if not punctual.
I let it ring three times before answering. A small rebellion.
"Hello, Father."
"Grace." His voice was exactly as I remembered it—deep, commanding, with that hint of gravel from too many cigars and not enough sleep. "It's been a while."
"I've been busy with school."
"So I've heard. Top of your class, according to my sources."
I didn't ask who his "sources" were. I didn't want to know which of my classmates or professors was on his payroll.
"Did you call for my transcript, or was there something else?"
He chuckled, the sound devoid of any real warmth. "Still direct as ever. I'm having dinner at the house tomorrow night. I expect you to be there."
Not a request. A command.
"I have plans."
"Cancel them."
I took another sip of wine, buying myself a moment. "What's the occasion?"
"Does a father need an occasion to see his daughter?"
"You usually do."
Another chuckle, this one sharper. "The Giordanos will be joining us next week. I want to discuss some details with the family first."
There it was. The real reason.
"I'm not part of the business discussions, remember? That was our agreement."
"This isn't about business, Grace. It's about family."
Lie. In my father's world, family and business were the same thing. Blood and money, inseparable and equally valuable.
"I have a midterm to study for."
"And I have an empire to run." His voice hardened. "Dinner is at seven. Don't be late."
He hung up before I could respond.
I stared at the phone, fighting the urge to throw it across the room. Three years of carefully maintained distance, and all it took was one phone call to pull me back into the orbit of the O'Sullivan family drama.
I finished my wine and poured another glass, carrying it to the piano. My fingers found the keys without thought, muscle memory taking over as the first heavy cords rang out. Rachmaninoff—dark and relentless. It didn’t soothe so much as hollow me out, each note dragging something buried closer to the surface.
