they didn’t necessarily deserve them. Sent them to the best schools, gave them every opportunity in life, because these were things that I was given. Though my father did not give them freely, he forced me to earn them, usually forcing me to work much harder than I needed to.
They’re all good and decent people, my children, but they are also spoiled.
This is a lesson that Laurent must learn. He will not get every single thing that he asks for simply because I can give it to him. He will earn it. No longer is he a teenager in high school or college. He is a thirty-year-old man now, he must make his own path, even if I’ve given him his job, he must work his way up the ladder like everyone else.
“Because being related to the owner does not make you qualified for a promotion,” I explain.
“That’s bullshit, it’s not fair,” he announces, sounding as petulant as he did when he was a boy.
Humming, I lean forward and wrap my fingers around my drink before I bring it to my lips again. My mind flitters back to the memory of Tennessee. Her thirst for a position, any position. The way her lips said ‘anything,’ but I knew that I could not ask just anything of her, at least not the anything that I wanted.
She is hungry for a position. Laurent just desires it because he is used to getting what he wants. He definitely is not hungry for that or anything else in life.
“It is fair, to you and everyone else. Work hard and get rewarded, son.”
He huffs, leaning back in his chair. The waiter appears and asks us for our order, a few moments later he’s gone and it’s just the two of us again. I watch Laurent, waiting to see if he will say something else. When he does, his words make me proud and I know that even with his mother’s voice in his head, he still has a bit of his father in there as well.
“Okay. I get it,” he heaves. “But I will earn that promotion.”
“I hope you do, Laurie. I hope you do.”
Chapter Four
LANDRY
Weekends.
I have a love-hate relationship with them. I love them because Sunday evenings my children always set aside for family time. I loathe them because it means I usually go home and am forced to be around my wife.
I’ve long stopped taking luggage back and forth from my office to my home. Instead, I just moved all of my clothes out of my house and into my penthouse apartment at the office. Susan knew what I’d done and she didn’t even comment on it.
It’s not like I can’t come home every night, my house is only a twenty-minute drive from my office. It’s that I don’t want to come home, not to her, not to this cold house. I only keep enough clothes to wear on the weekends in my bedroom at the house.
Soon, I won’t even keep those there. I’m moving, officially, and this weekend I’m having her served with divorce papers.
I’ve had enough of the charade. There is no point to it, never really was other than my stubborn pride and my sense of feigned loyalty. And she’s never said anything, never even broached the topic before because she has everything she wants, needs, and desires. Her life is exactly the way that she wants it, why would she complain?
Gripping the steering wheel of my car, I stare at the house. We had happy memories here, not together as a couple, but as a family, we have had many. I hope that they continue, that we can all move past what is about to happen. But I don’t hold out very much hope of avoiding her wrath when she discovers that she will not get half of every ounce of what I’m worth, she will indeed, be very angry.
Reaching over to the passenger seat, I grab hold of the manila envelope in my hand and clear my throat. These aren’t the initial divorce papers, but rather the contracts, the agreements, everything that outlines the divorce, or at least what I want from it.
Unfolding from the car, I close the door and lock it behind me. Walking up the steps, it feels final. Completely fucking final and I know that it shouldn’t because we have been over for a very long time—decades even.
Making my way into the house, I look around. She’s redecorated, again. Shaking my head, I listen