“Like I said,” I say firmly. “I didn’t know. She didn’t even give me her name, just started talking.”

“Sure,” Dad says acidly. “Was that before, or after—”

I interrupt him, standing and placing my hands on the table, mirroring his stance because I’m not some intern he can push around. Hell, I’m annoyed that I’m being forced to defend myself about a private matter. “Let me be clear. I didn’t sleep with her. She obviously needed someone or something, but all we did was talk, and then I had the driver take her home and then me home.”

Dad pauses, brought short by the anger in my voice and the challenge to his authority. He stares at me for a long while, scowling, but then relaxes. Some of the tension eases from my body. “It doesn’t matter if you slept with her or not,” he finally says with a sigh. “The damage is done. We have shareholders who are members of Pastor Snow’s church . . . including the pastor himself. They are not pleased.”

“Except nothing happened!”

Dad shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Bad optics is bad optics. And your track record doesn’t help matters.” Another dig that stings.

“What I do in my private life is no one’s business,” I growl. “Our shareholders should concern themselves with what we put in their pockets, not what I choose to do in the bedroom.”

“Except for the fact that when we took their money, we made a pact. A pact that stated that we, as a family-run business, would uphold the values of our investors,” Dad argues. “Something you’re woefully failing at, Ross.”

The room grows so silent you can hear a pin drop.

Even Courtney’s amused smirk has vanished. There’s playing the good daughter and getting jabs in on me. Then there’s shit hitting the fan, and this is for sure one of those times.

“Are you for real? Who the fuck are they to dictate what I do with my personal life?”

“They’re the people making all of this possible,” Dad says, holding his hands out to his sides, encompassing the entire boardroom and the skyline behind him.

“Say whatever you want about me, but I’ve done a lot for this company, and I’m committed and work hard—”

“You want to know what’s really being committed and hard work?” Dad growls swiftly, making me feel as if I walked right into a trap. “Settling down. Being happily married for thirty-five years. All while raising three children and giving them a good life. So, if you want to know what takes real commitment and hard work, try standing up, being a man, and finding someone to have a meaningful relationship with.”

“So that’s what this is really about?” I ask acidly as a conversation we’ve had multiple times begins playing on automatic loop. “You’re using this incident as an excuse to make me fall in line—”

“It breaks your mother’s heart to see you strutting around like a cocky, arrogant peacock that endlessly sows his oats,” Dad snarls. “You could have any woman you want, and what do you do instead? Carouse around, squandering precious time that could be better used to start a family.”

I stare at my Dad like he’s lost it. “You’re a piece of work.”

“Your mother and I aren’t getting any younger, Ross,” he continues as if I hadn’t said anything, “And neither are you. When are you going to grow up? Think about the example you are setting for your younger siblings and this company.”

“This is all such bullshit—”

Dad’s next words, though quiet and resigned, are like a stab in my gut. “There’s a board meeting coming up, and your behavior and its impact on the company have already been added to the agenda. You have two weeks to get your act together and make this storm you’ve created for our company’s image go away. But if you keep this behavior up, even I won’t be able to protect you, and they can vote to remove you from the board, demote you, or even force your resignation.”

It’s a struggle to control the fury emanating from my core. Demoting? Firing? Me?

Never has my father threatened me so boldly, even if he’s hiding behind the board. Or maybe he really is as much at their mercy as I apparently am.

Even Courtney, who usually loves when Dad shits on me, is pale faced at his words.

Piling more on the shitshow, Dad proclaims, “Also, it’s our anniversary this weekend. We’ll be having a family dinner tomorrow night before we celebrate it. I expect you to attend. I’m sure your mother will have something to say about this situation as well.”

Is he serious?

The man has a lot of balls telling me what he expects of me after just threatening me.

Out of spite, I want to tell him to shove the dinner up his ass. But eating with my parents on the eve of their anniversary has been family tradition as long as I can remember. Skipping it seems like a toddler throwing a tantrum, even if there’s a part of me that wants to do just that.

“Now, if you two will excuse me,” Dad says, walking over to the door that leads to his office, “I have the Rosenberg report to go over before I head home to your mother.”

The urge to face off with Dad over his bullshit threat is overpowering, but I squash the feeling before it can take root. When my father’s done arguing, he’ll walk away and won’t listen, no matter what you say.