He's gaslighting me, and the fact that he's doing it in front of Max and Honor is the truly astounding part.
"A drawing that looked a bit like a doll that we now sell"?
Sure, ten-year-old me was no salaried Davenport product developer, but under the guidance of my grandpa I worked hard on my idea.
We did market research and different designs and variations, and while we didn't do prototypes or anything, I knew exactly what I wanted her to be like, feel like, down to the shade of her eyelashes.
And I handed it all over to my dad.
"I'm obviously ecstatic," I reply sarcastically, finishing my drink.
Mom walks in before things can escalate, finally ready to leave. Honor grabs my hand as we head toward the door, squeezing it tight. "Just survive tonight," she whispers.
"T HIS SUCKS ," M AX SAYS AS he stops beside me. One hand is in his pocket, the other clutching a tumbler of whiskey like his life depends on it.
"Yep."
"I'll never understand how opulence is supposed to be good for charity," he says, scanning the room. "Everyone should just send a check and stay home."
"But how would Dad get to talk about how great and generous he is in front of all his rich frenemies if he didn't force them all into a room to listen?"
Max shrugs. "He could send a newsletter. Start a YouTube channel, I don't know. Not this."
"At least he's admitting he's brought everyone here to talk about his successes this year. It's got to be better than him pretending it's only about raising money for children."
It's so far away from Fraser Falls' toy drive that it's laughable. These are fake people with fake intentions, and I feel like I've put on glasses that help me see everything clearly now.
My stomach turns as I watch Dad embrace Daryl. I want to voice my disgust out loud, but I don't want to give Max an opportunity to pitch me a new job. I'm already nervous as hell waiting to see what Dad says.
Max finishes his drink and puts the empty glass on a passing tray. "His speech is in two minutes. Want to take bets on if he'll thank Mom for overseeing everything?"
I scoff. "I like my money, thanks. We both know he won't."
Dad climbs the stairs to the stage and taps the microphone, getting everyone's attention.
He pulls out white cards from the inside of his suit jacket and neatens them on the podium.
"Welcome, everyone. Thank you for joining us for our eighteenth year of raising money for incredible causes, and more importantly, the twentieth anniversary of our star product, the Clara doll."
Max leans in, his shoulder brushing against mine. "Did he just say a doll is more important than charity?"
"Without a hint of irony," I confirm, placing my empty champagne flute down and picking up another one.
"Every company has that one product that shines brighter than the rest, and for us, the Clara doll has allowed us to push Davenport Innovation Creative to heights I didn't think were possible twenty years ago.
"As most of you know, our story started with my father and his dream to open a toy store. I spent more time in that place than in school." He pauses to let everyone laugh at his scripted joke.
"And I learned a lot from my dad. He always wanted to fill his store with his own toys—our home was covered in sketches and ideas—but didn't think that was achievable for a working-class man from Brooklyn.
Well, Dad, it was possible, and I know if you were here with us, you'd be speechless at what we've achieved. "
Max leans in again. "Why is he acting like Grandpa wasn't on the board before he died?"
I shrug, paying close attention to every single word Dad says.
"I'd like to thank you all for being here tonight to celebrate this monumental occasion.
I'd like to thank the hardworking Davenport employees and our esteemed business partners who make products like Clara possible, and finally"—my heart slams into my rib cage—"I'd like to thank our customers, for fifty years of loyalty.
I hope everyone enjoys their evening and drinks enough champagne to be extra generous this year. "
The round of applause becomes a high-pitched frequency making my brain hurt as I watch my dad smile and wave as he walks off the stage.
He didn't credit me.
It's something so unsurprising yet so gut wrenching—to watch him do absolutely anything except acknowledge that I contributed something to the business. I only realize I'm storming toward him when Max grips my arm, stopping me.
"Clara, don't. I know how you feel and I know that you're hurting but this isn't the place. It'll feel good at first and then you'll regret it."
I spin on my heel to face him, freeing my arm. "How can you even say that when you get everything you want from him? And always have? How can you tell me you know how I feel when he's done nothing but create a pathway for you to stand beside him?"
Max's eyes widen. "A pathway? Clara, I don't want to stand beside him. I don't want anything to do with him or his greed and bad decisions. I hate what he's done to Grandpa's company. This is why we need to start again."
My brain fumbles over the words and the feelings, everything mixing together and leaving me spinning. "I'm yelling at you because I can't yell at him. This isn't your fault. I'm sorry."
"I know you are and that's okay. I'd be yelling at you if the roles were reversed." Max sighs. "You know you deserve better. As your brother, I want you to want more for yourself."
I've been thinking about this exact situation since yesterday morning and I still feel blindsided. Every time I think I've made a decision, fear talks me into something else. I said I'd know how I felt about my future at Davenport if he didn't credit me, and now I do.
I nod slowly. "Okay."
"Okay?" he says, gripping my arms.
"Okay." I nod, faster this time. "Let's do it. Let's try. I don't want to feel this, this, this disappointment anymore. I can't feel like this for the rest of my life."
Max pulls me into a bear hug, crushing me slightly, but it's reassuring that he's so excited. I let myself breathe properly, focusing on the future and not how my dad is going to react to the news. "Clar?"
I lean back; his hold around me loosens. "Yeah?"
"There's a guy over there that looks like he wants to kill me for touching you."
"What?" I follow Max's glare over to the door, where there is a guy looking just as Max described, standing next to Honor, and missing a beard.