Just two men sitting by the fire, crystal glasses in hand reflecting the flames. My dad is relaxed—jacket draped over the chair, shirt sleeves rolled up. He’s speaking quietly, gesturing lightly, and Cohen… Cohen is listening.
Not with that guarded locker-room posture. He’s leaning in, attentive, respectful. He chuckles softly at something my dad says, shaking his head, and in that simple gesture I see a lightness I’ve never seen in him before.
I see a son who’s finally found a father who doesn’t judge him—only welcomes him.
And speaking of fathers… Cohen’s father tried to resurface after the show. He’s now being firmly discouraged by the files Dominic stored on that flash drive.
Cohen and Grace are free. Finally.
My dad reaches out and gives Cohen a casual pat on the knee—so informal, so affectionate it almost makes me cry. A silent approval. Awelcome to the familythat means more than a thousand speeches.
“I hope you left some room,” my mom announces, walking in from the kitchen trailing cinnamon-scented air.
She’s holding a steaming apple pie, golden and perfect, like it belongs in a commercial.
She sets it on the coffee table.
“Mom, it’s beautiful,” I say, inhaling the heavenly smell.
Dad sets his glass down. Mom perches on the arm of his chair. He immediately wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her in.
They exchange a look.
One of those long, loaded looks couples married for twenty years use to communicate entire paragraphs without saying a word.
“Kids,” my dad begins, clearing his throat. His tone is serious. Too serious. “Before we cut the pie… Katherine and I need to tell you something.”
My heart stops.
Literally.
This is it.
The whispers. Mom’s exhaustion. Dad leaving the club.
Panic rises up my throat like bile.
Then I feel a warm hand wrap around mine.
Cohen.
He’s moved beside me on the couch, squeezing my hand tightly, fingers laced with mine. He doesn’t look at me—he looks at my parents—but his thumb strokes the back of my hand in a steady, reassuring rhythm.
I’m here.
“Sloane, sweetheart,” my mom says softly, her eyes shining. “You know this year has been… intense. And your father and I have thought a lot about the future.”
“Mom, please,” I whisper. “Just say it.”
Dad tightens his arm around her waist, looking at her with a love so deep it steals my breath.
“It’s not a bad thing,” he says gently. “At least… we hope it won’t be for you.”
He smiles—nervous, emotional—and nods to her.
“Your turn, Kat.”
She looks at me, her eyes full of pure joy and absolute terror about my reaction.
