“Don’t come asking for my help if you’re nervous on your wedding night.”
The longer Stephanie was in the room, the more Bran’s coiled muscles relaxed. Since she’d promised to go with him to Vegas, his stomach had stopped churning. Though he broke out in a cold sweat when he imagined being inside the casino, he could handle it with Steph close by.
He was feeling so cheery with the turn of events, he offered to let her go an hour earlier than usual.
She hadn’t been gone long when someone buzzed the entrance monitor outside his office door.
“Who is it?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t Carina.
“It’s me.”
Dad. His blood pressure shot up.
Reluctantly, Branson pushed a button to open the door. He leaned back in his chair, trying to appear relaxed.
“Good morning, son.”
His dad had perfected the art of speaking that word in a demeaning tone.
“Father.” He used an equally mocking inflection. “Or would you rather I called you Martin, so no one knows we’re related?”
“I see you haven’t changed. You’re as disrespectful as you’ve always been. And you wonder why we never got along?”
“What do you want?” Bran had no intention of rehashing this argument.
“Why do you think I want something? Can’t a father visit his son?”
“A father could, but you can’t.”
He could hear his father breathing hard and felt his fury lurking below the surface.
“I came to congratulate you on your engagement. Is that so bad?”
“How do you know about it?”
“You’re joking, right? Horace Parker announced it to the world. He probably took out an ad in the New York Times.” Martin’s disdain was obvious. “The man’s a low-life sycophant.”
Bran didn’t care much for Carina’s father, but felt compelled to defend him. “He’s no worse than anyone else in your circle of friends.”
“Horace isn’t in the circle. He’s new money. That’s why he wants the Knight name.”
“Interesting. And I was considering having mine changed to be rid of it.”
In the cold silence that followed, his father’s breathing grew louder, still.
“Though you take joy in spitting in my face, I’ve come to offer a wedding present.” His father’s voice came closer, leaning across the desk.
“Thanks, Dad. I’m sure Carina will make a list.”
“I plan to set up a trust fund for your first child…”
Martin left the sentence hanging, as if he had more to say, but decided not to share. Though Bran was curious, he refused to take the bait.
“How do you know my first child isn’t already walking around somewhere?”
“Let me clarify—your first legitimate child.”
“Offer what you want. I’m not planning my life around your desires.”
“I do have a few conditions.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Under his desk, his hands clenched and unclenched.
“I’m willing to offer a substantial trust fund if you produce a child within the next two years.”
“No thanks.”
“You don’t know how much I’m offering.”
“It doesn’t matter, Dad. You have to know the value of Escapade’s stocks has skyrocketed. I don’t need your money, and I don’t want it, either.” He almost mentioned that his dad’s company was currently floundering, but thought better of it.
“You’d turn your nose up at my money? Even 250 million?”
He fought to keep from gasping aloud. “You’d give my son or daughter a quarter of a billion dollars?” Bran couldn’t figure out his dad’s game. Could it be I’ve finally earned his respect? Is this his way of offering an olive branch?
“It’s a trust fund.” Martin sounded earnest, at first. “But you’ll be the trustee until the child inherits at age eighteen. It has to be a blood-child, of course, not adopted. Your firstborn sighted child.”
