The silence between us crackles like a live wire. His fingers twitch against the counter. My lips part, breathless, angry, aching.
For a second I think he’s going to do it—drag me down, tear me apart, punish me for every word I just spat at him.
Instead, he steps back. Just enough to put space between us, but not nearly enough to cool the heat.
“Careful what you wish for, little girl,” he says, voice dark silk. “Because if I give you what you’re begging for, you won’t survive it.”
And then he turns his back on me.
Walks away.
Like I’m nothing.
Again.
My nails bite into my palms as rage floods my chest. I want to scream, to throw the glass, to tear this whole perfect house down brick by brick. Instead, I grab the abandoned wine bottle, tip it straight to my lips, and drink until the burn claws my throat raw.
If he wants a war, he’s fucking got one.
Kate bursts into the kitchen like nothing’s wrong, cheeks flushed with excitement, her heels already dangling from her fingers. “Brook, hurry—we’re going out. Daddy’s working late, so it’s just us girls.”
My head whips toward her. Just us girls. A safe night, away from him. For once.
Except I can feel his eyes on me from across the room, and my chest burns because he’s still standing there, glass in hand, pretending to be unaffected while I’m unravelling.
Kate beams. “Go change. I want you dripping hot—we’re not drinking cheap cocktails at some dive, we’re going to Paradise.”
I force a laugh and slip upstairs, my hands shaking as I pull open Kate’s closet. Paradise isn’t a place you fade into thebackground. If you walk in, you’re either prey or predator, and I’m tired of being prey.
So I strip down and slide into the tightest black dress I can find. Low back. Deep plunge. Hem so short it’s a threat. It hugs every curve I usually try to hide, and when I turn in the mirror, I almost don’t recognise myself.
Good. Maybe tonight I can be someone else. Someone who doesn’t ache for her best friend’s dad.
“Holy shit, Brook,” Kate gasps when I step back into her room. She whistles, tossing me a pair of red heels. “That is… wow. My dad’s going to shit himself when he sees you.”
“Kate—”
“I’m kidding!” she laughs. “He doesn’t notice stuff like that. You could wear a potato sack and he’d still call you cute.”
My stomach twists, but I say nothing.
We’re halfway down the stairs when I hear his voice. “Brooklyn.”
I freeze. Kate doesn’t. She’s already clattering ahead, rummaging in her bag. But I turn, and he’s there in the hallway, leaning against the banister, sleeves rolled, watching me like a storm cloud about to break.
His gaze drags down my body slowly—too slowly—pausing at my thighs, lingering at the swell of my breasts. By the time his eyes find mine again, I’m on fire.
“What?” I snap, heat rising in my cheeks.
His jaw tightens. “Change.”
I laugh—sharp, cruel. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His voice is low, dangerous, but Kate’s only a few feet away, humming to herself, oblivious. “You’re not leaving this house dressed like that.”
Rage flares through me. “You don’t get to tell me what to wear. You don’t get to tell me anything.”
His hand curls around the banister like he’s seconds from breaking it in two. His eyes burn holes through me. “Brooklyn?—”
