Behind Closed Doors

[carrington_atlantic]

Blake couldn't help but chuckle at the video on his phone. Outside of the kind of downtown dance club that was wildly popular for a month and closed a few weeks after, a young woman was climbing into the back seat of a luxury sedan, and clearly seemed to be having a difficult time of it, presumably from a state of inebriation. The headline above the article (although referring anything on a gossip site with a descriptor of journalism was much too generous, in Blake's opinon) had read:

CARRINGTON HEIRESS SPOTTED PARTYING AT ATLANTA'S HOTTEST NEW CLUB
Declares Crossroads club to be "Fire"! (Just don't mention to them that she's only 16! Oops!)

He could count on seeing something like this about every two weeks or so, each report cementing his daughter's reputation as the wildest wild child since Lindsey Lohan. Sometimes, he'd put on his best "exasperated but loving father" face and make a statement condemning something or other, and the press would have something new to post about ten minutes later, until the next time she made another scene or was rumored to be dating some rock star or athlete three times her age, not that there was ever any evidence to support the whispers.

Oh, if they only knew, Blake mused as the car slid smoothly to a stop in front of Carrington Manor. He gave a nod to his chauffeur before meeting his major domo Anders at the front door. "Is my daughter home?"

The severe, gray-haired older man nodded. "She went directly to her rooms to 'study'," Anders replied, the skepticism plain in his tone.

Blake frowned, playing his part. "I'll go have a word with her. Make sure we're not disturbed this evening, Anders. I'll let you know when to have dinner ready."

With a curt bow, Anders spun on his heels and headed off, the picture of efficiency. Blake managed to hide his smirk until the older man was out of sight, then climbed the stairs up to the residential wing of the mansion, where his daughter's bedroom waited at the end of the hall.