Her gaze doesn’t waver. “I heard something this morning. People are saying Ridge didn’t just order the hit on the Duvalls. They’re saying he did it himself. Last night. And that it wasn’t clean.”
The café noise fades to a dull roar. “That’s not possible,” I say automatically. “He was with me last night.”
Then the timing clicks into place, sharp and unwelcome. He didn’t get to my house until almost morning.
She watches me closely. “I’m telling you what I heard.You know how rumors move. There could be some exaggeration, some half-truths in there. But you can bet that if it reached me, it’s already reached your father.”
My phone vibrates against the table, the sound jarring. I look down, and my chest tightens.
“It’s my father,” I mutter. “Of course it is. He’s like a ghost. Always right there.”
“What do you think he wants?”
“I’m supposed to meet him at his house at three.” I swallow. “Del, I can’t deal with him right now. I’m not ready.”
“Then don’t deal with everything,” she says calmly. “Go see him, listen, and answer what he asks. Don’t volunteer anything. Not today.”
I stare into my untouched coffee, my stomach twisting hard enough to make me nauseous. My father. Ridge. The weight of both pulls at me in opposite directions.
“Do you think Ridge is a bad man?” The question slips out before I can stop it, and regret follows immediately.
Delphine considers me carefully. “Bad is subjective. What matters is where you’re willing to stand on the continuum. I told you I’d always be straight with you.”
She takes a sip, eyes still locked on mine over the turquoise rim. She never judges. It’s one of the reasons I trust her.
I always knew Ridge was capable of violence. That wasn’t new. But hearing it framed like this, picturing blood and aftermath and consequences, makes it impossible to keep abstract.
“I don’t know how to reconcile it,” I admit quietly. “The man I’m with is careful with me. He’s protective and gentle and measured. That’s who I love. I don’t know what to do with the rest of him.”
Delphine reaches across the table and covers my hand. “You need to decide what you want. With Ridge. With your father. With your life. Because once you choose, you have to live with that.”
The bass thudsthrough my chest like a second heartbeat. The Palomino’s lights sweep the floor in slow arcs of blue and white, breaking apart the haze in flashes of red and gold.
Delphine spins in front of me, her braid whipping over her shoulder as she laughs. The ease of it catches in my chest before I can stop it.
The crowd moves as one mass, bodies pressed close, sweat and sound and motion blurring together. I should be enjoying this. That was the point. Delphine dragged me here to remind me that I am still allowed to exist outside of decisions and consequences.
But the knot in my stomach refuses to loosen.
Her words from earlier won’t let go. Once you choose, there’s no going back.
She never pushes. She says what needs saying and then lets me sit with it. Right now, I am grateful for that silence more than conversation.
But the diversion isn’t working like it usually does.
I force myself to move with the music, to let my body remember how this used to be, when my life was as close to normal as it ever got, being Laurent Boudreaux’s daughter.
Before Ridge Stone.
And then the air shifts. It’s subtle, but my body catches it before my mind does. A chill runs up my spine, quick enough that I stop dancing and turn before I’m even sure of what I’m thinking is behind me.
Ridge stands at the edge of the dance floor, his heightand presence cutting clean through the smoke and light. His gaze is locked on me, focused in a way that makes my pulse stutter.
Heat coils low in my gut. It is not relief or desire alone, but something tighter and more dangerous.
Delphine follows my stare. Her smile fades. “Guess the party’s over.”
“Stay here,” I say, steadier than I feel. What the fuck is he doing here?
