Clarke returned to the office an hour later, his temper vastly improved by large quantities of sugar and the usual mood boost he got by spending time with Audrey. Even with plenty unsaid between them, even as he felt himself rethinking everything, one thing never changed: simply being around her, Clarke always felt all the shit of the world fade away.

The reprieve from the real world, however, was temporary. No sooner had Clarke’s ass settled back into his desk chair than his assistant buzzed his phone.

He picked up. “Yup.”

“Mr. West would like to see you in his office.”

Not your father. Always Mr. West would like to see you.

Priscilla had always made a habit of referring to Clarke’s father as Mr. West. Though, now that he thought about it, Clarke wouldn’t be surprised if the instructions came straight from Alton himself, in an attempt to maintain distance. It’s not as though Alton had ever been eager to call attention to the fact that he and Clarke shared a bloodline.

“Let me guess,” Clarke said, tiredly rubbing his eyes, “he expects me up there ASAP.”

He heard the smile in his assistant’s voice. “Ten minutes ago, actually. I called your cell. And texted.”

“Sorry about that,” he said, pulling his phone out of his suit pocket and taking it off the Do Not Disturb setting.

The stairwells in Manhattan high-rises didn’t get much use, save for the occasional torturous fire drill, but since his VP title meant he was a mere one floor beneath his father’s top-of-the-top office space, he’d taken to using the staircase. Partially because taking the elevator one floor seemed lazy and indulgent, partially because the cold stairwell was sometimes the only solitude he got during the workday.

But mostly because it drove his father crazy.

The staircase ensured Clarke entered the executive floor behind the desk of Alton’s assistant. He had nothing against Roberta, but one-upping his father was a rare bonus Clarke enjoyed taking advantage of.

Today, however, Clarke was denied the pleasure of catching his dad off guard. Alton’s office door was open, and instead of looking surprised to see Clarke, he seemed to be waiting for him.

Clarke lifted his eyebrows. He’d never known his father to wait on anyone. He’d never been able to figure out if his father was a study in indifference or actually was indifferent. Indifferent to his wife, indifferent to his son… indifferent to his whole damn life outside of work.

Alton nodded in relief when he saw Clarke. “Come in. Shut the door.”

Clarke did as instructed, then bowed. “You rang?”

“Cut the crap, son.”

Clarke did his best to hide is surprise. Alton had called him son plenty over the years, but almost never in the office. He gave his father a closer look, noting that he seemed almost distracted.

“Everything okay?” Clarke asked.

“Sure. Sure. Sit.”