“Don’t I dare what?”
“Make this about semantics.”
That slow grin spread across his face, and I wanted to strangle him. Or kiss him. Still hadn’t decided.
“I want to hear you say it.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned. “Griffin.”
“Vi.” The grin faded. His expression shifted into something raw and vulnerable. “I’m sorry.”
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. It didn’t help. The tears came anyway.
“I’m sorry.” He stepped closer. “I’m sorry for not believing you. For making you feel like you were imagining your father’s control. For dismissing every warning you gave me because I didn’t want to see it.” Another step. “I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to prove yourself when I should have just listened. For being too proud to admit you were right.”
The anger I’d been nursing for days evaporated. Just poof. Gone. Replaced by this ache in my ribs that made breathing difficult.
“I’m sorry for teasing you just now when you’re clearly upset. For being shit at communication. For bringing you flowers instead of just using my words like an adult.”
He was close enough now that I could see the individual lines of exhaustion etched around his mouth and the stubble he hadn’t bothered shaving.
“I’m sorry for every time I left the toilet seat up. For stealing your coffee that one morning. For not knowing how to change a nappy until you showed me. For being a disaster of a father until you whipped me into shape. For putting Hazel’s onesie on backward that first week and pretending I’d done it on purpose.”
“Griffin.”
“For not telling you how incredible you are. How strong. How you’ve somehow managed to put up with me and my mess of a life, my mess of a parenting attempt, Hazel and all of it, andstill be here, standing in front of me, giving me another chance I don’t deserve.”
My vision blurred.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For all of it. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend however long it takes making it up to you.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ll do anything, Vi. Anything you want. I’ll get down on my knees if that’s what it takes.”
“You don’t have to...”
He dropped to his knees.
“Griffin,” I hissed. Heat flooded my face. “Get up.”
“Not until you forgive me.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“I know.” His mouth curved. Just barely. “But I mean it. Tell me what I need to do. Tell me how to fix this.”
Oh my God. He was serious. Griffin Michaels, two-time world champion, was on his knees, begging me for forgiveness while the city lights blurred behind him.
He looked up at me with those intense eyes, completely surrendering his pride, his ego, everything, just to make this right.
And the worst part? The absolutely mortifying, ridiculous part?
I was secretly, embarrassingly pleased about it.
“This is ridiculous.”
“I know.” His mouth curved. Just barely. “But I mean it. Tell me what I need to do. Tell me how to fix this.”
What did I need? My brain scrambled through a hundred answers. For him to never doubt me again. For him to choose me over my father. For him to trust that I knew what I was talking about when it came to Julian.
But he’d already done that. He’d signed with Rekford. He’d walked away from everything my father offered.
