I arrived at Le Bernardin in jeans and a blue sweater, which was frankly too hot for the weather outside. What I wore wasn't exactly fit for a place like this.

The staff at the swanky restaurant gave me wide eyes as I was led to my father's table, but what the hell could they do? Kick me out? I'd think they would even allow me wearing boxers–and only that–being the son of a highly respected billionaire. Please, Father was little more than an asshole with lots of cash, and he'd probably gained most of it in unethical ways.

Sauntering towards a table private from everyone else's, I saw both my father and Rebecca had arrived. When he noticed me, his permanent frown grew even more visible.

Robert–my father–was old in every sense of the word but for his looks, that was something he'd gotten plastic surgery for. I couldn't even remember his real face; everything about him was fake. I had his deep-set blue eyes, but that was about it. Every other resemblance we might have had was erased by the heavy use of Botox and surgery. There wasn't one wrinkle on his face or hands. If I had to guess, he'd fixed his body too.

His hair was colored black, not a single gray hair to be found, even if he would turn sixty in under a year. His looks were as important to him as his wealth. He was an egotistical jerk.

"Son." Father nodded at me with no smile whatsoever.

"Robert," I greeted back, and though I smiled, it held no warmth. There was no love lost between us; he'd shown me was unable to have any other emotion besides selfishness.

As a kid, I never looked up to him, like any child with a healthy relationship with their parents would do. He'd never been my hero or someone I wanted to become when I grew old. Instead, growing up, I just wanted his approval. Fuck, I longed for it–for him to tell me he was proud of me. Of course, that never happened. In the end, I accepted it and suppressed the longing until it all went away; in return, resentment took place.

One thing was for fucking sure, I would never treat my kids the same way he treated his. They would never feel like necessary dirt to carry on the legacy. If I was lucky enough to have children, everything else would be secondary; they would always come first.

"Mateo." Rebecca smiled at me, breaking the silent competition of wills that I had with Father. I wondered if he could see how much I hated him, but my guess was he knew but really couldn't care less what I thought of him.

"Becca." My voice always softened when I talked to her, no matter how angry I could be.

"Sit down, Son. You couldn't have dressed in something that didn't make you look like a peasant?" Robert commented, giving my clothes the stink eye like it was a personal offense directed at him.

"I could've, but then I would've looked much more handsome than you, Father," I smirked, but I did sit down on the chair opposite him, next to Rebecca. "How's your new wife? Does she think the life of luxury was worth having to sleep with you for?"

Control had always been important to me. It was something I prided myself on having. So, tell me why I struggled with it every time I was in my father's presence?

"Guys, can't we lay off the insults, just for now at least?" Rebecca pleaded; she hated how much we disliked-hated–each other.

"Of course, darling." My father gave her what looked like a sweet smile, though it lacked any emotion. He was a stone-cold son of a bitch.

A waiter came by just then, with a fancy looking red wine–which, knowing Robert, was old and expensive. I didn't even think he drank it because it was better than others, just more impressive.

"Are you ready to order the food now, Sir?" the man asked, looking nervous like he could sense the sort of man my father was. It wouldn't surprise me in the least; he was, after all, a bastard in all but the real meaning of the word.

"Yes, we're ready." Robert listed off what he wanted, as did Rebecca.

"Nothing for me," I said to the waiter. "I won't stay long." This, I directed at Robert. His irritated face brought me more pleasure than the sweetest of wine–and the wine we'd gotten was plenty sweet.

When the waiter left, I took another sip of the red liquid and settled better in the uncomfortable chair. You would think a restaurant this expensive would have more comfortable chairs than the MacDonald's down the road, not less.

"What did you want to talk about?" I asked, ready for this shit to be over.

"Who's to say I didn't want to simply enjoy a good meal with my children?" He answered a question with a question, making me even more irritated, especially when I knew that was a load of crap.

"I do. Come on, old man, I don't have all day."

The last time we had dinner together, he'd tried to get me to marry a daughter to one of his friends–all to gain more money and power over New York. That didn't end well. Fuck that shit. I would marry for love and only love.

He narrowed his eyes on me. He really didn't like me ordering him around. After a few seconds, he sighed. "When are you going to quit this silly job you have?" he asked like it was a given that I would give it up soon.

"Why are you asking?" If this was going to be another one of his ploys to get me to come work for him, he would be waiting until it rained hellfire.

"Haven't you been wasting enough of your time on that shit?" He'd never understood my passion for teaching, or just never cared to understand it.

"Father, I don't intend to quit my job as a professor. It won't happen." I couldn't even believe we had this conversation again. It was getting old and tiring.

"Tell him, Dad," Rebecca urged him. She'd stayed quiet while we bickered but was apparently just as tired of listening to us going back and forth like I was.

"Tell me what?" Now, I was getting suspicious.

Robert closed his eyes for a second and then focused on the glass of wine in front of him. "I have cancer."

I have cancer. That was the only thing he said.

"How bad is it?" I asked. There wasn't any shaking in my voice or the sound of anxiety. I felt steady and calm, and it all just emphasized how little I considered my father and me family. Sure, I felt bad, but mostly for my sister; she still cared about him, and I cared about her.

"My doctors say I have about forty percent chance of beating this shit," he said it like he didn't believe it–like he wouldn't make it.

It was a whole other thing to see such a proud man as Robert beat down. He'd tried to be perceived as indestructible his entire life when in reality, he was just as much mortal as the rest of us–just like the same people who he called peasants.

I was about to ask more questions, like what kind of cancer he had and what his plans were, but looking at the tears in my sister's eyes, I figured this was something me and him could talk about in private.

"Whatever you brought me here for, can we take it at your office instead? Does tomorrow work?" I wanted to spare my sister for whatever hurt I could. She'd probably gotten the whole story already, but she didn't need to hear it once again, and in public no less.

Father's eyes widened for just a fraction of a second. I knew he was surprised that I had suggested meeting him in private–well, he was probably surprised that I wanted to meet with him in general.

"I'll make it happen. My assistant will contact you." He nodded.

"Good, I'll see you then." Directing my attention to my sister, my eyes softened. "Let's do something together next week. Whatever you want to do, I'm in."

She gave me a watery smile. "Yeah, that sounds good. Emma is more than welcome to join us." At the mention of Emma, she winked at me. I didn't even look at Robert as I walked away.

Driving home, I felt restless. The dinner and the news had taken me completely by surprise. Whatever my father wanted to talk to me about today, I guess I would find out tomorrow instead. I had a feeling about what he wanted to discuss, and I didn't like it one bit. I just hoped I was wrong...