“I hate this,” I mutter.
Melody, ever unsympathetic, lifts her head from my pillow and yawns.
“Thanks for the emotional support,” I tell her.
There’s a knock on the doorframe. I turn and find Nora leaning there, holding two mugs. One is definitely for me. The other is probably hers—but I wouldn’t put it past her to bring both just in case I needed backup caffeine.
“You look like you’re preparing for battle,” she says.
“Might as well be.” I take the mug from her. “If I wear a jacket, does that make me look like I care too much? But if I don’t, do I look like I don’t take this seriously? Is there a dress code for confronting your emotionally absent billionaire father?”
“Smart casual with emotional armor,” she says, totally deadpan.
I huff out a laugh. “Perfect.”
She walks in, glancing at the disaster that is my bed. “Okay, not that one.” She points to the stiff button-down I tossed earlier. “You look like you’re going to sell me luxury real estate in that.”
“So what do I wear?”
She pauses, then walks to my closet, sifting through hangers like she’s been doing it for years. After a moment, she pulls out a navy shirt—simple, soft, the kind that saysI’m not tryingbut still looks good.
“This one. And those dark jeans that actually fit.”
I raise a brow. “You sure?”
She hands me the shirt. “You want to feel likeyou. Not some press release version of yourself. Don’t go in trying to impress him. Go in remembering who you are.”
I nod slowly, the tightness in my chest loosening just a little.
“You’re going to be fine, Max.”
“I’m not worried about him,” I say. “I’m worried aboutme.”
She steps in front of me, her hand sliding to my jaw. “You’re allowed to be. But you’re doing this for the right reasons. Not for him. For you. For the kid who never got answers.”
I lean into her touch. “Can I still throw a drink in his face if he says something smug?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “Just don’t wear white. That’s hard to clean.”
I grin, just barely.
***
The car is too quiet.
I could’ve taken an Uber. Hell, I could’ve walked. But something about driving myself felt... necessary. Like I needed to hold the wheel if I was about to steer straight into a personal hellscape.
The meeting spot is a private dining room tucked inside a luxury restaurant in Tribeca—exclusive enough to have no signage, no photos, and enough off-the-books meetings under its belt to keep entire PR departments employed.
Lawrence Westwood’s kind of place.
The valet takes my keys like I’m someone important. Maybe they recognize me. Or maybe they just assume I’m rich enough to belong here.
I don’t feel like I belong anywhere right now.
The hostess leads me through a corridor so quiet my boots sound too loud. She opens a door at the end and says, “He’s waiting inside, Mr. Donovan.”
I almost correct her—It’s just Max—but I don’t.
