And suddenly, an ache spears through my chest.
My father is not a bad man. Quite the opposite.
Julian Heart is the dad who rode eight hours on a bus after an away game just to make it to my school play—even if he fell asleep in the front row. He calls every Sunday to ask if I’m eating enough vegetables. He loves me.
Loudly. Fiercely. Suffocatingly, sometimes.
But he loves me.
And that’s exactly why I can’t let him be so blind.
Can’t let him throw everything on Cohen because he’s scared his daughter made a mess.
“Stop.”
The word leaves my mouth before my brain approves it.
The scrape of my chair against the floor is a gunshot in the tense room.
Everyone looks at me.
Dad freezes.
The professional-coach rage mask shatters instantly, replaced by raw paternal fear.
“Sloane?” His voice softens, trembles. He steps toward me. “Sweetheart… are you okay? Did he…”
He swallows hard.
“Did he put you in a bad situation? Did he force you to do something you didn’t want?”
There he is.
Papa Bear. Ready to maul anyone who hurt me.
Guilt squeezes my insides, but I can’t let this bloodbath continue.
“He didn’t do anything, Dad. And stop looking at me like I’m made of glass.” My voice wobbles but holds. “You can’t talk to him like that. It’s not fair.”
I feel Cohen’s gaze burn into my side—conflicted, confused—but I don’t look at him or I’ll lose my nerve.
Dad sighs, rubbing his face.
“Sloane, honey, you don’t understand. He’s a hurricane.”
“I can take care of myself,” I insist, stepping closer. “What happened last night… if there’s someone to blame, it’s me. I was the one who—”
Jumped him?
Got drunk and did everything possible to derail him?
Begged him to stay?
Entered his shower?
“He was helping me. He didn’t do anything wrong. He was… being kind.”
Dad almost laughs at the word kind paired with Cohen.
