Maybe the first step is making daddio to take a step back.
“Yeah, he’s a real rockstar,” I say, my voice syrupy sweet.
Must be why hedidn’tpick up my emphasis on fourth.
You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink, huh?
I beg to differ. This fucker, Blake, can’t even be led to the damn water.
I prop my chin in my hand, the absolute picture of mocking interest. “Please, don’t let me stop you. There is nothing quite as fascinating asthird-quarter projections in thefourthquarter. I look forward to hearing the histories from such a savant of the markets.”
The familiar ache is still there in my chest—but smaller.
My father’s a bit smaller too.
I glance at my mother, noting the subtle tension in her shoulders. It’s almost imperceptible, yet it feels like a warning. Truth is, I don’t really know her—not the way a daughter should.
I know the woman she shows the world: the capable, social wife who caters to my father’s every need, so polished and poised you’d think she was born that way. But now, watching her study her plate as if it can solve the quiet battles she’s been fighting alone for far too long. I’m realizing there’s a whole other side to her.
Maybe there’s a part of her that’s sick of this shit too.
Something shifted last year when Nick confronted her about the way she treated Charlie. It was small at first—like the edges of her carefully tailored persona had started to fray. Now, as she tries—really tries—to mend those broken parts, new cracks are forming, letting me glimpse something raw and real beneath the surface.
I don’t know yet what that something is. But I can feel it. It’s changing her.
And it’s changing me, too, because it makes me want to know her in a way I never have before.
Maybe she feels the same, but she’s lost about where to begin.
And maybe that shared uncertainty is our common ground.
When I finally let my gaze pass over Chance, definitely not stopping to linger—armor’s in the shop and all—his expression remains carefully neutral.
But there's something in his eyes I can't read—but weighs more than my father’s condescension and Blake's barely concealed derision combined.
Everett strolls in then, hands casually tucked in his pockets, “What did I miss?”
Don’t ask—you’re the lucky one.
The men shift back into their conversations, and just like that, the sharp edges in the air dull a little. My father picks up where he left off with Blake, and even Nick and Everett fall into their usual rhythm, with Chance eventually joining in.
I push back my chair, keeping my movements casual, and reach for my cup. I’ve got a few asses to kick, they won’t kick themselves—although the picture in my head of them trying makes me laugh.
Instant relief.
I’m halfway to the sideboard when Chance’s voice cuts through the low hum of conversation.
“Hey, sugar lips,” he says, his tone loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. The hum of conversation dies instantly. A low murmur of surprise ripples through the room, and all eyes swing toward me.
“What did you just say?” Turning to him, I keep my voice low, steady, as I turn to him. But heat is already rising in my chest. “What did you just say?”
Unease ripples through the air. Nick strangles his fork in his fist—brotherly instincts overruling friendship—his most scathing warning glare locked on Chance.
Charlie and Eve flank Nick with looks of fury mixed with a good dose of disgust.
I’m not alone in this. And it’s something.
“You heard me,” he says, nodding toward his plate. “You mind taking care of this for me, while you’re up?”
