“And second,” I continue, not missing a beat, “you don’t see Hannah enough to say you support her. And third—”
Click.
She’s hung up.
I lean back, smiling to myself. These days, getting the last word with Meghan feels like its own kind of justice.
The phone rings again, and I pick it up on the first ring, thinking it’s Meghan coming back for round two.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Daddy!” Hannah’s excited hello makes me smile, easing the temper flare-up from my talk with Meghan.
"Hi, Angel," I reply, expecting her to ask when I’ll be home.
"Can I spend the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s tonight?"
"They just left, baby, and you have school tomorrow."
"They’re here, Daddy. Can I, please?"
I glance up and see that Dad's car and Nate's truck are both still in my driveway.
"Grandma said she’ll take me to school in the morning."
"Let me talk to her," I say, already knowing I’m going to give in, but wanting to confirm it’s okay with my folks.
***
I end the call with mom and put the phone back in my pocket before knocking gently on the door.
"Come in," Elle says, her voice quiet.
She’s still sitting on the couch, exactly where she said she’d wait. When I step inside, she looks up at me with those eyes—wide, uncertain, a little too full of guilt for my liking.
“How’s Meghan doing?” she asks, her voice low, almost hesitant.
Her beautiful face is set with concern, but it’s not the kind Meghan deserves.
I shake my head. “Meghan is fine,” I say flatly. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for her.”
Her gaze drops to her hands. "She lost her job because of me," she says.
I walk over and sit beside her. “Ever heard ofFletcher Enterprises?"
Her eyes widen slightly. "Wait," she says. "Is she related to Vincent Fletcher?"
“Yep. That’s her father.” I nod. “Private equity partner. Started out flipping small companies, then moved into buying out struggling businesses and turning them for profit. He's ruthless, smart, and disgustingly rich. Meghan grew up with everything—boarding schools, summer homes, the works. Trust fund that could buy this whole town twice over.”
Elle’s quiet for a long beat. Then, “I’ve seen that name on donation plaques. On buildings. I never made the connection.”
“Meghan never had to work a day in her life. That job at the group home? It wasn’t about income. It was about control. She liked holding power over people who had none. Her father must have taught her that’s what success looks like.”
Elle leans forward. “So she’ll be fine.”
“Better than fine,” I say. “She’ll lick her wounds at some private resort and be back at one of her father's charity dinners next month pretending she still runs the world. But make no mistake; today, you hit her where it hurts.”
“Why did you marry her?” she asks, without a hint of judgment.
