The heavy oak doors of Arthur Livingston's private study opened, but for the first time in his life, Alex didn't wait to be called in.
He walked into the paper-scented room with a measured, steady stride, his chin lifted and his posture immaculate. The knot of anxiety that usually coiled in his stomach whenever he stood before his father was completely gone, replaced by a cold, quiet weight.
Arthur sat behind his mahogany desk, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed the quarterly balance sheets. He glanced up, his thick brows pulling together at his son's unannounced entry.
"I was under the impression you were finalizing your suit for the reception tomorrow," Arthur said, his voice gravelly and stern. "What is so urgent that you bypass my secretary?"
Alex didn't offer a polite excuse. He pulled back the heavy leather armchair across from his father—the same seat where he had taken reprimands for months—and sat down, crossing his legs casually.
