big guns in the ‘let’s see who can annoy the other brother the most’ battle of wills.
“Knock what off, Larry?”
Lawrence slammed his fist on the antique console table next to the entrance of Donovan’s office, the Ming vase filled with fresh gladiolas rattling precariously on the edge in the aftermath.
“You’re doing that on purpose! Why can’t you act more like…like…like…” Lawrence’s face had turned scarlet at least thirty seconds earlier, but was now rapidly hurtling toward purple. “Like you’re worthy of the Fonterra name!”
This time when Donovan swallowed hard, it was to stuff the hurt back down in his gut where he carefully kept it hidden. It wasn’t as if he’d been told repeatedly by his family over the years how ashamed of him they were. Why get continuously upset over such a thing? It’s not as if they would ever change how they felt about him. Especially since their ire had only gotten worse as the years went by.
Donovan would always remind himself that at least he had a shit ton of money. That had to mean something, didn’t it?
“What the hell is going on in here?” Donovan’s father, Francis, marched into the room, forcefully shutting the heavy door behind him. “I can hear you two morons all the way to the elevator!”
Donovan massaged his temples. He didn’t want to ask himself if the day could get any worse, because in his family, he was confident it could. No point in inviting the wrath of the family gods.
Lawrence slammed his hands on his hip. “He’s pestering Lance with his own personal designs, when he knows damn well that we’ve already assigned Ariana and her team to that client.”
Donovan raised his hand like an errant schoolboy. He despised shouting matches, which is why he resorted to sarcasm instead. A big part of him believed that Lawrence loved to yell at the top of his lungs, that maybe it made him feel more powerful or some such shit.
His father frowned. “For chrissakes, Donovan. What?”
“I’d like to interject some actual facts into this conversation, if I may?”
Lawrence snorted as if Donovan had said the most ridiculous thing ever. His father gestured impatiently, silently indicating for Donovan to speed things along.
“Mr. Sherman was at Spago’s and he stopped by my table. He told me that while he was happy about his company’s long association with our firm, he wasn’t happy with the new designs. He asked if he could meet me in my office, and I agreed.” Donovan made a sweeping gesture toward the walls where some of his earliest designs out of architect school were framed. “He wanted to know who had designed these, and why couldn’t he work with that person.”
Lawrence burst into laughter and his father pinched his lips together. Donovan wasn’t sure why he’d felt compelled to share the true story of what had happened. He’d already known they wouldn’t believe a word of it, and he didn’t care anymore whether they did. Lately, cracks to Donovan’s veneer had begun to form. His fear was that soon he wouldn’t be able to maintain the self-control he needed to survive.
Finally, his brother seemed able to contain himself. “Oh my God. You are so full of shit.”
Their father smacked Lawrence on the shoulder. “That’s enough.” He regarded Donovan. “You’re both acting like children instead of grown men, executives of an award-winning architectural firm. This company has been in our family for generations and it’s your legacy. You didn’t have to build it—it was handed to you both. And yet you’re behaving as if you were toddlers.” He jabbed a finger at Donovan. “You, especially. You’re forty-two years old!”
Donovan chuckled. “And Lawrence is thirty-nine.”
He hoped his father didn’t continue reciting the firm’s long and boring family history the way he did whenever he got upset. It was the filthy rich version of ‘when I was a kid, we used to have to walk barefoot in the snow fifty miles to school. You don’t know how good you have it.’ In some ways, his father was right. He did have it good. He didn’t have to worry whether he’d have a roof over his head or be able to buy his next meal. But it didn’t mean he hadn’t paid a price in other ways.
“I swear to the living Christ,” his father gritted out. “If your mother hadn’t stipulated in her will that you head the company, I would’ve…”
His gritted his teeth as Donovan lifted one eyebrow, his gaze darting to Lawrence then