My father does not believe in my choices. He believes in inevitability.
I curl my fingers around my phone until my knuckles ache and watch the city slide by, feeling very small in a world that is suddenly much too big again.
The penthouse is quiet when I let myself in. The sun set an hour ago; it was a long day of auditions.
Scottie is on the couch, laptop open, game footage paused on the screen. His feet are propped on the coffee table, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other curling around a few strands of his hair, playing with it unconsciously. He looks up the second the door clicks shut.
He smiles.
It’s instinctive, brightening his whole face. “Hey. There she is. How’d it go?”
I set my bag down a little too carefully by the door. “It was… fine. They said Callbacks will be posted next week.”
“You’ll get one,” he says, like it’s a fact, not a possibility. He studies me more closely, and the smile fades from his mouth but not his eyes. “You okay? You look pale.”
“I’m just tired,” I say. “It was a long morning.”
“Long couple of days,” he corrects gently. “Sit. I’ll get you something.”
Before I can protest, he’s up and moving toward the kitchen, filling a carafe with water, and hits a button on it.
The message on my phone burns against my palm as I take a seat next to his laptop
He comes back with a fresh mug, something herbal-scented curling up from the surface.
“I got you chamomile,” he says, handing it over. “Seemed like a calming tea. The lady at the store said it’s good for stress. I didn’t tell her my wife’s in a sham marriage running from the Russian mob, because I feel like that’s a lot for a stranger on a Tuesday.”
Despite everything, a strangled sound escapes me that might be a laugh.
“Thank you,” I say.
He sits next to me, not too close, our knees not quite touching.
“So,” he says carefully. “You want to tell me what’s actually going on in your head, or do we want to pretend you’re just nervous about your audition?”
I stare at the tea.
The words sit like sharp stones on my tongue. My instinct is to swallow them. To smile. To make a joke. To keep this bubble intact for as long as possible.
But we made a deal.
No secrets. No surprises.
“My father knows,” I say.
The humor drains out of his face in an instant. “How?”
“He sent me a message.” My voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from the far end of a tunnel. I unlock my phone with fingers that don’t feel entirely attached to my body and hand it over.
He reads the text once. Then again. His jaw clenches tighter with each line.
When he finishes, he sets the phone down very carefully on the coffee table, like he’s afraid if he grips it any harder, he’ll snap it in half.
His eyes are dark when he looks at me. “He’s not getting you back.”
“You can’t promise that,” I say, tired but desperately wanting to believe he can make good on his statement. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“Maybe not.” His voice is low, but there’s steel under it now, threaded through every word. “But his only weapon is that this thing between us doesn’t work, right?”
