Atticus rubbed his temples. He was getting a headache from having the same conversations over and over as the continuously talked in circles. It was always the same: Basil didn’t do enough while his dear little brother argued that he did more than enough. It was tiring. He heaved a sigh. “And what do you want? A thank you?” He snapped at him, knowing damn well that his brother wouldn’t have much of an answer for that. Although he was particularly chatty today about his life choices. If only he’d put this much passion and effort into finding a wife.

His next words were like a slap in the face, and Atticus narrowed his eyes toward Basil. If only he understood how difficult it was to crunch numbers, run a household, make decisions he didn’t care about he would understand why he didn't have any business ventures. Did his brother think he never had goals or dreams outside of this life? He hadn’t wanted to be thrust into the shoes but here he was. “No, Basil. If it wasn't for you and your career I would be married. I would be a father. So I’m sorry for thinking of how miserable you would have been if I hadn’t chosen you. But it was her and be disinherited because father didn’t approve of her or let her go so you could continue being happy with your life. And guess what I chose?” Atticus frowned then. He wasn’t having this conversation here with Basil. He wasn’t having this conversation with him, ever. Lowering his voice, he flicked his gaze toward the floor, staring at the marble. “She was perfect, my dear little brother, in every way and you would have adored her.”

Then, without saying another word (he wasn’t going to talk in circles about Lissington either), Atticus turned on his heel and walked away from him.

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