“I think we’ve decided on the Musée de l'Orangerie,” he answers.

Having heard more than enough, I can’t help but speak up.

“Who’s we?”

My father sighs.

“I’d prefer to have a civilized dinner,” he says, acting as if I’m the problem here.

Jesus, this whole room needs therapy.

Maman, having completely missed the tension starting to brew, picks right back up where she left off. “And what about the flowers? Nothing purple, I hope. It does absolutely nothing for my complexion. No red either. I don’t want it anywhere near me. I’d prefer pale pinks. Now, will Ignacio be a groomsman or—”

Unable to listen to her drone on for one more second, I cut her off.

“There is no wedding,” I say, gruffly enunciating each word.

Silence blankets the table, and my father carefully sets his utensils down on his plate, gathering his patience before looking up at me. “What do you think you’ll gain by acting like a petulant child?”

I laugh at the absurdity of his question.

“My freedom from a tyrannical dictator.”

“Freedom?” He chuckles. “Freedom doesn’t exist in this world, Emmett. I thought you were already well aware of that, but perhaps I didn’t drill the concept home well enough while you were growing up, running amok at that boarding school.”

“You have me confused for Alexander.”

My brother throws up his hands. “Hey! Don’t pull me into this.”

My father ignores him, his blazing fury pinned solely on me. “You’re spoiled and ungrateful. If my father asked me to do something, I did it.” His snapping fingers pierce through the silence. “Like that,” he insists.

“When have I not done exactly as you asked? In school. At work. I carry the responsibility you’ve given me better than most men would and still, you demand more.”

He scoffs. “Yes. I’m hardly going to pat you on the back for enduring the hardships of growing up with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

I rise to stand. “That’s the root of it, isn’t it? You resent the fact that you were forced to become a self-made man while I was not. Your father was a lowly factory worker and your mother was a humble dressmaker and yet now you’re one of the wealthiest men in the world. Still, you’re unhappy. You see Alexander and me as ungrateful because we weren’t born beggars on the streets. You wish we’d had to claw our way up just as you did.”

His face colors red with anger.

“Tu dois montrer un peu de respect,” my father spits as he whips his napkin down on the table.

It collides with a wine bottle, knocking it over. Lainey jumps and tries to help as red wine bleeds into the white linen tablecloth. Her grandmother tugs her back down into her seat with a shake of her head.

Maman clasps a hand over her mouth, crocodile tears filling her eyes over the fact that some red wine splashed onto her dress.