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Billionaires.
Criticism for people like us is brutal. Everything you say and do is out there for the world to see whether or not you're on a reality TV show like The Kardashians (and The Jenners.) Life is a contest. Who has more money than who? Once you get to the top, you want to stay there, so you fight atime after time again for your spot on the food chain.
It's a game of survival and a good thing I'm winning.
"Vina? Your father's here!" my mother, Mila, called. I'd flown in from LA for a weekend in Houston. I'm not sure how much I like it here.
I wandered down the marble stairs of the Great White House, padding downstairs and rounding the corner into the living space. My father, Dante, stood there with a familiar man at his side.
Tall, dark hair, dark eyes, tattoos. Killian.
My father looked at me, and a rare smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Vee," My father's low baritone voice rumbled.
"Dad," I replied, my one-word response telling all that needed to be said. The last time my father and I spoke, we ended on a sour note, per se.
Arguments were a part of life—a usual occurrence for me. Some couldn't handle my attitude, and some thought it was disrespectful. In the end, I couldn't care less.
"Is this why you called me last night? To see him?" I asked my mama. I wouldn't put it past her to do something like this. She gave me an apologetic smile, scratching the back of her head.
She wasn't sorry.
She hated when my father and I fought. She wanted peace and happiness, but you can't get that with two hardheaded individuals. It's just not possible. My father and I fought at least every two months, never missing a beat. It was our dynamic, I guess.
"Vee, you remember Killian, yes?" That was my Italian father's favorite phrase.
'..., yes?'
He loved it for some odd reason. Maybe it's a cultural thing.
"Yes, Dad." was my dry response.
He didn't particularly prefer to be called 'dad'—more so, 'Papa.' I called him that when I was younger.
Then, silence enveloped the room after my reply. My gray orbs darted around the room, trying to find a way out of the awkward silence.
Just as I was about to turn away and return to my room upstairs, my mother broke the silence with a bit of comfortable small talk. Well, comfortable in her point of view.
"So....? Vina, how's work been?" She asked, trying to keep the conversation alive. I raised a brow at her, tilting my head ever so slightly to the right, my sterling gray eyes staring back at her, waiting for her to finish.
