I demanded it. As if my Ivy League education had been entirely my idea and not a form of pacification I’d hoped might earn me a glimmer of acceptance. Ignoring the bruise he’d struck so effortlessly, I forced my voice to remain even. “This conversation isn’t productive.” It was a phrase I’d learned early. The one that let me disengage without provoking escalation. “If you have concerns, you can put them in writing.”
“You will not dismiss me,” he said sharply.
The phone disappeared from my hand.
I gasped and turned, heart slamming into my ribs.
Rios stood there, jaw set, my phone already at his ear as he shut the door. “That’s enough.” The calm of his voice was almost frightening.
Dad barked something I couldn’t hear.
Rios didn’t flinch. “You don’t get to speak to her like that.”
Another bark. Louder this time. Dimly, I registered the sound of engines outside. Everyone else was leaving.
Rios’s gaze flicked to me for half a second—checking, not asking—then turned distant again, like he’d locked onto something far more important than the man on the other end of the line.
“She’s been through a traumatic event. Someone attempted to murder her. And since you didn’t bother to ask—no, she’s not injured. She’s alive. She’s safe. And she doesn’t owe you an explanation on your timetable.”
I was frozen. Rooted to the floor.
Dad’s voice rose, sharp enough that I caught fragments. Who the hell are you? This is family— You have no right?—
Rios didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “If you can’t speak to your daughter with basic respect, you won’t speak to her at all.”
He ended the call. Just like that.
I stared at him, my heart still racing, my hands numb at my sides. My phone seemed heavier when he pressed it back into my palm, like it had absorbed the impact of something it had never been meant to carry.
Rios didn’t say anything right away. He just watched me—really watched me—with an expression I couldn’t read and didn’t have the strength to try.
I thumbed the phone entirely off, wanting to shut down my father’s last avenue of reaching me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
I swallowed. “He’s my father.”
“I know.” Something in his voice shifted. Not anger. Understanding. The kind that came too easily.
I folded my arms across my chest, as if they might keep me upright. “I usually handle him.”
“I heard how you handle him.” The words landed harder than anything my father had said.
I laughed once, short and broken. “Congratulations. You’ve just witnessed my childhood.”
His jaw tightened.
I waited for the familiar follow-up. The but he means well. The he wants what’s best for you. The rationalizations I’d started out repeating, then perfected myself over decades.
Rios didn’t offer them.
Instead, he stepped closer. “You don’t deserve that.”
The room tilted.
In reflex, I shook my head. “It’s fine.”
“No,” he insisted, firmer now. “It’s not.”
