I heard the fear underneath. He wasn’t worried about me embarrassing myself. He was worried about what I’d cost him.
I parked exactly where he asked, outside the circular driveway filled with luxury sedans. When I approached the door, a butler glanced at my clothes and frowned.
“Deliveries are around back,” he said.
“I’m not delivering anything,” I replied calmly. “I’m David Mitchell. Mark’s father.”
A flicker of confusion, then trained politeness. “Of course. Please come in.”
The foyer was enormous. Marble floors. A chandelier that looked like it had never known dust. Framed photographs of galas, yachts, politicians shaking hands. Generational wealth on full display.
Mark spotted me immediately. He smiled, then his eyes flicked down to my outfit before he could stop himself. I saw it. The disappointment. The calculation.
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