Empire of Desire by Rina Kent

Martha’s voice reaches us first. “Madam, you can’t come in.”

Before I can fathom what’s going on, the woman I could’ve gone a lifetime without seeing again barges into the kitchen. The woman who shouldn’t know about my arrangement with Gwyneth.

Her expression is snobby as she clutches her precious pearls. “Oh my God, Nathaniel! What are you doing?”

I release Gwyneth with a sigh. “Hello to you, too, Mom.”





23





Gwyneth





I never thought much about the meeting the parents part, because Nate and I aren’t like that.

This whole thing is for convenience. There shouldn’t be feelings he has to be aware of and I’m only using him for sex.

The asshole.

The fucking asshole.

I hate him so much sometimes, and okay, calling him Uncle Nate was probably not the best way to get revenge, but he hurt me. He cut me in half after giving me the best night and morning of my life. He turned me into a woman, took care of me, and slept beside me. And he didn’t leave like he usually does.

He stayed.

Not to mention, he was nice and playful and took me to heights I didn’t realize were possible. Then he crashed it all to the ground.

And I had to hurt him back. That’s what Dad told me; if someone punches, you don’t stand there and take it. You punch back, the hardest you can, with all your might and with twice the aggression.

So I did that and said I used him, and then I called him Uncle Nate because I know he hates it. He might’ve wanted me to call him that before, but that’s not the case lately. There’s been an unspoken rule about how he’ll never refer to me as kiddo and I’ll never call him Uncle.

But I said it to hurt him, not that it worked. He doesn’t feel the same things we mortals do, because he’s a god whose heart is made of stone. I can touch it, but I can never breathe life into it.

And now, there’s another person with us, and I can’t even touch his stone of a heart, because suddenly, there seems to be walls surrounding him. No, they’re not mere walls.

They’re forts.

Tall, solid ones that not even armies can bust through.

The reason is the person. The intruder. Debra Weaver. I know her, I’ve seen her countless times at the events I attended with Dad. Not to mention on TV. She’s the second half of the Weaver power couple, Senator Brian Weaver’s wife and a kickass woman.

At least, that’s what I used to think.

Before I felt how Nate surrounded himself with a rigid exterior in her presence. As if she’s the army closing in on his forts.

She doesn’t look like an army. If anything, she appears classy and elegant in her tailored beige dress and her black high heels. Her golden hair is gathered in a neat twist and her light eyes have a serene look. She also looks way younger than she’s said to be. I mean, Nate’s older brother who died a long time ago was way older than him, ten years or more—if I remember correctly. So that makes Debra approximately in her late sixties, but she looks to be in her early fifties.

Anyway, she doesn’t seem amused right now as she flicks her gaze between us like she’s a merciless teacher and we’re the two insolent kids in her class.

“I’m sorry,” Martha tells Nate, but she peeks at me. “I couldn’t stop her.”

Why is Martha looking at me as if she pities me? I’m fine. I no longer feel like going to visit Dad and crying beside his bed because those feelings of abandonment are hitting me out of nowhere.

I don’t hear the clinking emptiness in my half-full brain or feel the need to jot a million other words on my list.

I don’t.

“Stop me?” Debra clicks her tongue. “This is my son’s house and I get to come whenever I want.”

“It’s okay, Martha,” Nate tells her in his usual calm tone, and she scurries away, bowing her head.

“It’s not your son’s house, it’s my dad’s,” I correct her. Because it is, and I won’t allow anyone to take anything of Dad’s. Even with words.

Debra narrows her eyes on me, and holy shit, since when did they become so judgmental? They look so calming on TV and at events. “What did you just say to me, little girl?”

“I’m not a little girl. I’m twenty. And I said this is Dad’s place.”

“Go to the firm, Gwyneth,” Nate coldly lashes out his order, and I internally flinch at the apathy in his tone. Is that how he’s going to treat me now? As if I’m someone he can order around?

In that case, he has another thing coming.

“No, we have a visitor, so I’d like to stay.” I flop onto a chair by the counter, where my cupcakes, my vanilla milkshake, and my boiled eggs are laid out because Nate remembers these things. He knows what I like to eat and drink and even look at. He just doesn’t know how to be a fucking human being and has no trouble cutting me open. “You can join us for breakfast if you want.”

I don’t mean that as I stuff my face with a cupcake, but Debra approaches us, or more likely she’s heading toward Nate, who’s still standing where I left him, behind me.

“I can’t believe this. This must be a distasteful joke.” Debra sounds horrified.

“What are you doing here, Mom?” Nate is still in his usual unaffected mode, but there’s tension at the end of his words.