“What happened?”I ask, bracing myself.I haven’t even closed the door, and I’m already regretting walking in.
This is worse than being greeted by Dad’s nurse with her usual cheerful laundry list of my father’s charming behavior:
“He’s not cooperating.”
“We could use a second male nurse.”
“He’s spitting out his food again.”
It’s like dealing with a five-year-old who just discovered conspiracy theories and has decided to stage a full-blown revolution against adult diapers and flavored gelatin.Only this one used to run a music empire and now spends most of his lucid moments ranting about his agency like it’s Watergate.His left side might be paralyzed, but that mouth?He’s the same sarcastic asshole, gifted in weaponizing words, particularly at the expense of the people actually trying to help him.
And yet, here I am.Again.Playing the devoted daughter, head nurse, crisis manager, and—if Bernice’s scowl is anything to go by—likely punching bag.
Maybe she’s about to tell me I’m not doing enough.That I’ve failed at the whole saintly caregiver routine.That I don’t care enough.Which is rich, considering Dad has a team of people tending to him day and night.Before she suggests again that I should’ve stuck him in a facility, let me remind her that she’s the one who refused it when the doctor and social worker proposed it.
I can’t do everything.I can’t sit beside his bed twenty-four-seven, run this business, and also keep my emotionally constipated cat from trying to smother me in my sleep out of protest.Allegra is taking this pretty hard.Has anyone asked if my girl will be okay with my absence?Nope.Everyone is just pulling me in all different directions.
“You didn’t call Roderick Wilder,” she announces, as if she’s been waiting to drop that particular bomb.
“Oh, that ...”The one thing I’ve been artfully avoiding while juggling flaming knives.
In my defense, I talk to Cleo.She’s not only my best friend but also his sister.I didn’t ask her directly about Roderick returning.Nope.She was bitching about it.How their father wants him back on stage.I asked what she thought about it.
Her response?A flat-out, “He has to get his shit together before thinking about trying to get back to singing.Rod just finished treatment a few weeks ago.He’ll slip before he takes his first steps to the stage.”
Cleo isn’t wrong.But try explaining that to Bernice, who sees Roderick as a line item on a profit sheet, not a man moments away from a relapse.She only cares about Dad’s business—what he’ll want, because she knows him better.
I offer her my most polite smile, the one I reserve for clients who ask if exposure counts as compensation.“I’ve been working with our current roster and managing my father’s care team.”I even add a smile.“We have to focus on what matters, Bernice.”
Hopefully, that’s enough to keep her happy.I’m not in the fucking mood to explain why Roderick Wilder is a grenade I’m not ready to pull the pin on.And let’s be honest, he’s not even part of Dad’s current clients.There’s no contract—no commitment.
Roderick is just a floating name, part of Dad’s Wishlist.A pretty big list of people who might not even know Connor still owns a talent agency.You know what he should do first?Move to L.A.
Plus, who wants to work with Roderick Wilder?
Apparently, my father, who doesn’t give a damn about the consequences.But I do.And guess what?I’m in charge now.
So why should I call Wilder?Why should I open that door when we have plenty to deal with?
I refuse to do so.
That should’ve ended the conversation.
“I see,” a voice says behind me.Low.Rough.The gravelly tone rumbles across my spine, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
“So, what you’re saying is that I’m not important?”
My blood thuds once—hard—before draining from my limbs, leaving everything flushed and humming.
I turn slowly, already knowing who it is but praying I’m wrong.
And ...I’m not.
Nothing prepares me for seeing Roderick Wilder in the flesh.Right here.Right now.Breathing the same air as me.And looking—fuck me—exactly like the problem I never wanted to solve.
His jaw is outlined by days of stubble.His mouth—still the same sinful curve I used to kiss—is set in something smug and bitter.His eyes?Goddamn dangerous.That green hasn’t dulled one bit.He looks like the last mistake I’d make again just for the high.
There’s no buffer.No warning.Just him, here, occupying space in a way that causes my body to remember every time he pressed me against a wall, a mattress, a piano.
