Tomorrow, I'd see my father for the first time in five years. Tomorrow I'd face whatever came next.
But tonight, I let myself hold onto that small, ridiculous moment. Brian's grin. The warmth in his eyes. The way he'd looked at me, like making me smile was the only thing that mattered.
It was enough to hold the fear at arm's length.
For a little while.
Sleep came eventually. And for once, I didn't fight it.
The black sedan arrived at 11:30 sharp. Of course it did.
The driver didn't speak during the ride into Manhattan. Just navigated the bridge traffic with quiet efficiency while I sat in the back, watching Queens disappear behind me.
I hadn't been back to Manhattan in years. Crossing the bridge felt like crossing a border. One I'd worked hard to put behind me.
The restaurant was in Midtown—white tablecloths, hushed conversations, a sommelier who appeared the moment you sat down. My father's territory. The kind of place where Charles Rothwell had closed deals and celebrated victories for thirty years. Where power spoke softly, and money listened.
The hostess led me to a corner table. My father was already there.
He looked older than I remembered. Grayer. The lines around his eyes had deepened, and there was a slight stoop to his shoulders that hadn't been there a decade ago. Time had done what I never could. Made Charles Rothwell look small.
He stood when I approached. Old money manners.
"Ava."
"Dad."
He gestured to the seat across from him. I sat. The sommelier materialized, but I waved him off.
"Water's fine."
My father ordered a Scotch. Neat. The same order he'd had at every business dinner I'd ever witnessed.
We sat in silence for a moment. The distance between us felt wider than the table.
"You said you have information," I said finally. No warmth. No pretense. I wasn't here for a reunion.
"I do." He reached into the leather briefcase beside his chair and withdrew a thick manila folder. "But first—how are you? Are you safe?"
"I'm fine."
"Your boyfriend, Brian Torres. The firefighter." My father's tone was carefully neutral. "You're staying with him."
I went very still. I'd never mentioned Brian to him. Never mentioned anyone from my life in Queens.
"He's not my boyfriend," I said. "He's a friend who stepped up to keep me safe." I held his gaze. "How do you know I'm staying with him?"
He didn't answer. Just watched me with that steady, assessing gaze I remembered from childhood. The one that said he knew more than he was letting on, and he'd reveal it when he was ready.
"That's not protection. That's surveillance."
"I’m concerned." He held up a hand before I could respond. "I know. I know you don't see it that way. I know I lost the right to your trust a long time ago." He set the folder on the table between us. "But Ava—someone is trying to destroy you. And I have resources that can help."
"Resources with strings attached."
"No strings." He met my eyes—the same green as mine, the same stubborn set to his jaw. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. I haven't earned it. I'm not asking you to let me back into your life. I'm simply offering help. What you do with it is your choice."
I studied him. Looking for the angle, the manipulation, the hidden agenda. My father never did anything without expecting something in return.
