Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79438 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79438 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Christ help me.
Turning around, I continue down the stairs and mutter to the valet. “Callan Wright.”
He speaks into a radio for my car to be brought to the front, and as I wait, Sophie appears by my side, looking enraged. “How dare you?”
“You’re making a scene,” I mutter, harldy sparing her a glance. “It’s unattractive, Suzanna. Show some class.”
I swear I hear her huffing and puffing, her breaths escalating as if she’s a volcano about to erupt.
“Everyone in our social circle will hear about how rude you’ve been to me.”
I let out a chuckle, and meeting her eyes, I lean a little closer. “Does it look like I care?”
My car pulls up, and I give her a disgusted look before I walk to the driver’s side and slide behind the steering wheel.
Leaving an offended Suzanna Bloomberg on the sidewalk, I drive away.
It’s at times like this I miss the peace and quiet of my old life before I became a billionaire.
With my phone connected to the Bluetooth in the car, I dial my father’s number.
“Hey, son,” his grumbly tone comes over the line. “Is everything okay?”
He’s probably worried because I’m calling so late.
“No, I just wanted to check in with you. How are you?”
“Good. The hip is doing much better.”
My father had a hip replacement a couple of months ago, and he’s been driving my step-mother insane.
“Take it easy with the exercises. I don’t want to hear from Naomi that you’re pushing too hard.”
Dad lets out a huff. “Don’t listen to her. She exaggerates things.”
“Right,” I chuckle.
“Is that Callan?” I hear Ellie’s excited voice. “Put him on speaker.”
My little sister is fifteen years younger than me, but we have a fantastic relationship.
“Hey, Ellie,” I say, happiness shining through in my tone.
“When are you coming over again?”
“I saw you on Sunday.”
“So?” she snips at me.
“Want me to pick you up from school tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yes!”
“Hi, Callan,” I hear Naomi call out.
“Hey, Naomi. Is Dad still giving you trouble?”
“Of course,” she mutters. “The man’s on the treadmill for an hour a day. Talk to him.”
“Dad,” I say, my tone filled with warning. “Don’t make me strap you down in front of the TV.”
He lets out a disgruntled huff. “You and what army.”
“Callan, you hold him, and Mom and I will tie him to the couch.”
I let out a chuckle. “Just take it easy, Dad.”
“With you all ganging up against me, I don’t have much of a choice.”
I talk with my family until I stop my car in the basement parking area of the company’s building.
Saying bye to everyone, I tuck the device back into my pocket and head up to my office so I can get some work done before midnight. It’s a routine I find hard to break, so I’ve stopped trying.
Chapter 4
Lillian
I wipe off my kitchen counters, and with my entire apartment spotless, I still feel restless.
Maybe I should go out and get some fresh air?
Deciding to message my friends to see if they’re free for lunch, I grab my phone and open our group chat.
I’ve known Beverly and Denise since high school, and even though I’d call them my best friends, they seldom reach out to me first. It’s something I’ve gotten used to.
Lillian: Hey guys. How about we meet for lunch? It’s been a while since I saw you.
The message shows that it’s gone through, and I stare at the screen for a moment before I walk to the spare room I use for my art. It will take them a while to reply.
Hopefully, they see the text today.
I set the device down on my work table and look at the piece I’m busy with. The mediums I like to use are a combination of plaster and oil paints on a canvas. I feel it makes the image stand out.
Currently I’m working on a piece depicting a child sitting on a heap of trash consisting of cell phones, laptops, TVs, wrappers, and junk food. I’m trying to convey that a child’s foundation is important.
I’m busy with the plaster phase and will only get to add color with my oil paints in a couple of days. Probably by next weekend.
As I sit down to continue working, I glance at the collection I already have. Ten pieces that took me two years to create. They vary from an old woman walking between tombstones, showing how lonely it is when everyone you know has passed away, to a man sitting on a heap of people to convey what it took for him to get to the top. They all show the struggle of life through my eyes.
They’re my most prized possessions. I’ve poured my heart and soul into them, and if anyone had to ask which one’s my favorite, I wouldn’t be able to answer them.
A sense of pride pours into my heart before it’s joined by a pang of loneliness. No one in my life is interested in my artwork. My parents haven’t even seen any of my paintings.