“This looks like more than tired.” I crouch beside her bed, talking to the covers hiding her face. “Did something happen between you and Chloe?” I ask, my mind scrambling for answers.
I know Sophia has always had a thing for her former college roommate. Chloe feels the same but worries Soph might just beexperimenting. She hasn’t been willing to cross the friendship line.
“Chloe’s fine,” she whispers.
“But you’re not.”
“C, stop,” she pleads. “I just want to sleep.”
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the press of helplessness and concern, but I can’t let it go. “Did something happen after the conference?”
“I just want to be alone.”
This isn’t making sense. Soph doesn’t keep things from me—if anything, she overshares. But she’s giving me nothing. “Can you look at me, please?” I say softly, trying to coax her out from under the covers. I need to see her—read her expressive face that can’t lie.
For a moment, she remains still, not revealing herself. And then her shoulders start shaking with hard sobs, muffled by the pile of covers. Beneath the grip of worry is a fierce rage for whoever caused this.
The last time I saw my tough little sister fall apart, she was thirteen. Some assholes at school started calling her Jugs when she began to develop. She came home in tears, and I damn near lost it. I went straight to the principal and then to their parents. What I really wanted to do was beat the hell out of those pricks. But I had to be the adult, be the parent. That didn’t stop Dice and me from scaring them, just enough to make sure they never bothered her again.
Now, it’s different. She’s all grown up. Back then, I told her not to be ashamed of her body, that it was those boys who should be ashamed. I made her hot chocolate, and we binge-watchedMad Men.
But hot chocolate isn’t going to fix this.
I sit on the edge of the bed and wrap my arms around her shaking frame, hugging her as tightly as I dare. She breaks, hersobs growing louder as she emerges from beneath the covers. Her face is anguished, her cheeks wet, and she lays her head on my shoulder, dampening my shirt.
“I’m here,” I murmur, holding her, hoping—praying—she’ll tell me what’s going on, and she’ll let me help. That another woman I love won’t keep me in the dark.
It’s nearly six o’clock when my father’s assistant escorts me into his office. My hands are cold—a chill born of his calculated cruelty. Making me wait all day to see him is a classic power move. He’s always known how to make me feel small before I even have a chance to speak.
The double doors slide shut behind me, and his throne looms large. The gleaming mahogany desk, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Chicago skyline, the meticulously curatedart pieces on the walls—everything here is a stage designed to remind anyone who enters that they are in his domain.
I cross the vast Persian carpet, which smothers the sound of my boots, and sit in the guest chair. His silence makes it feel more like a hot seat. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t even acknowledge my presence. He just continues scribbling notes in the margins of a document with his prized red Emperor pen.
Fine.I can play the silent game too. This is one of his oldest intimidation tactics. Who will blink first?
But as the minutes stretch, the weight of the day presses down on me like a steel beam, pinning me beneath the unshakeable guilt. I turned off my phone after leaving Bayside, avoiding the temptation to call Chaz. God, I miss him. But what could I possibly say that wouldn’t compound my secret? I can’t face him until I can give him the full truth—and maybe some kind of closure.
Visiting Dee and the twins had been a brief reprieve. Holding those babies, breathing in their soft, innocent smell, was a balm to my frayed nerves. It also felt good to focus on something besides my own issues, giving the new mom time to grab a shower and just rest while Mick was out.
Despite disagreeing with my choices, Dee hadn’t pushed. She gave me what I needed—a few hours of peace.
Now, that peace is gone.
My father finally lowers his pen and looks up with his piercing cerulean eyes. His dark hair is immaculately maintained by a stylist and shows no trace of gray. His tan—artificial, of course—is as flawless as his surgically smooth face. At sixty-four, Theodore Townsen refuses to let time leave its mark.
“So,” he says, his tone dripping with mockery. “The prodigal daughter has returned. By my calculation, a week early.”
“I needed to speak with you,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite his jab. If I focus on why I’m here—that singular goal of doing right by Chaz—I can stand my ground and get through this.
His sharp gaze scans over me like a laser, pointed and judging. He doesn’t miss that my hair is wavy instead of in a sleek bob or that I’m wearing glasses instead of contact lenses. My face is devoid of makeup, my nails are short and unpainted, and I’m dressed in a casual sweater and jeans instead of tailored corporate attire. All of the changes I’ve made have his top lip curling with disdain.
“You could have at least made yourself presentable.”
The words hit their target—being a disappointment always does. But I don’t shrink myself for him. Instead, I meet his eyes evenly. “I didn’t see the need for airs, given the nature of what I wish to discuss.”
“And this matter couldn’t have waited to be discussed at home?”
“It’s not a social call.”
