The silence that follows Grandma's threat feels heavier than the walls themselves. Her words still ring in my ears — "Either you sit down and we talk, or I'll assume your private resorts are doing well enough to challenge my hotels."
So here I am, sitting like a child caught red-handed, trying not to fidget while my grandmother eyes me over the rim of her teacup like she's deciding whether to hang me or hug me.
"Desmond," she finally says, calm but sharp, "when exactly were you planning to tell me that you own a Resort chain?"
There's no point pretending anymore. She already knows. Fuck how did she find out?
I exhale and run a hand through my hair. "Honestly? Never."
Her brow arches. "Wrong answer."
