back again. He might love Lawrence more—hell, might only love Lawrence for all Donovan knew—but he was also a smart man. Lawrence couldn’t run a convenience store, let alone a giant corporation.
“You were saying, father?”
His father ran a hand across the top of his silver hair. “Never mind. Don’t discuss your artistic fantasies with our clients, and you—” His father pointed at Lawrence—“Stick to managing the design teams.” His father narrowed his eyes at Donovan. “There’s an event I need you to attend next week, and I want you to bring a date.”
Donovan sat straighter in his chair. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There had been an understanding for years between them, that as long as he didn’t flaunt that he was gay, didn’t openly date or get involved in a relationship with a man—then his father would look the other way.
“Well. I’ll have to consult my little black book to see which handsome devil I’d like on my arm that night.”
His father turned to Lawrence. “Don’t you have some meetings to set up or blueprints to go over?”
“No, I’m—”
“Out.” Their father jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Sure.” He cleared his throat then cast a glare in Donovan’s direction before stomping away.
His father adjusted what had to be a Gucci tie as he approached Donovan’s desk. He always wore that brand, had for years. He helped himself to one of the leather side chairs directly across from Donovan, took a seat then crossed his legs. He leaned back, placed his elbows on the chair arms, then laced his fingers together before placing his hands in his lap.
Donovan sighed. His father had assumed the ‘I’m fucking serious’ pose.
“This has gone on long enough, don’t you think? For God’s sake, Donovan, you’re middle-aged. Aren’t you embarrassed that you haven’t done the right thing yet? Found a good woman with a good name to start a family with? You could join the country club, go to all the best social affairs, be photographed by Vanity Fair—help keep the firm’s name in the public eye. Instead, you’re still prancing around town, lurking in dive bars and sex clubs with a bunch of homos and perverts, and trolling for your latest sleazy one-night stand.”
“Well. That was quite descriptive.”
His father narrowed his eyes, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he stared Donovan down. After a few moments, the defiance was knocked out of him.
His father leaned forward. “Now, you listen to me,” he growled. “You’re going to attend this event with Charlotte Carrington. I’m not saying you need to propose the same night, but test her out. If you think you can build a respectable life with her, then continue the pursuit. If the two of you are truly unsuited, then find someone else who’ll work.”
Donovan wanted to add ‘does she have a cock?’ but felt the man had already reached his limit for the day with Donovan’s snarky commentary.
His father straightened in his chair, then gave a quick nod. “If you need any assistance finding another candidate, then I’ll be glad to help.” He rose. “But you’re not getting out of this. You have a year to comply.” His father turned on his heel then sauntered to the door. With one hand on the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder. “Your trust fund isn’t immune to my interference, no matter what else your mother instructed.”
He left the room and Donovan fell against his chair, his heart pounding. He wiped the sweat that had beaded on his upper lip with the back of his hand. Fuck. His distress wasn’t only about the money, was also his anger at himself for allowing his father to affect him the way he always did. To shame him, make him feel dirty and helpless.
His gut roiled, a headache looming on the horizon. He might be swimming in money and assets, but his wealth did nothing to soothe his soul. To lighten his heart. But now, his inner rage had gathered more steam, and his father’s threats were eating away at him like they’d never done before.
A year.
Maybe he’d just make it a blow-out year, the party to end all parties, then simply succumb to his fate. He’d had a good run, but he was getting older. Once again, his wealth would likely ensure that his bed would always stay warm, but he found the idea distasteful. Donovan had always mocked the rich old geezers with the trophy wives that they paraded wherever they went, as if the