Edward cleared his throat, stepping closer, his attention fixed on Frankie now. “Frankie,” he said gently. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She stared at him, still gaping, the wordhereclearly doing too much work in her head.
“I want you to know,” Edward continued, voice warm, reasonable, “that while I would love for you to call me Dad, I understand that might take some time.” He smiled, like this wasgenerous of him. “You can call me Eddie. Or Edward. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Not Mr. Standish.
I watched that land on her.
Frankie swallowed hard. Her fingers tightened around the tea cup, knuckles paling. She nodded once, a small, automatic movement that didn’t mean consent so much as overload.
Jake shifted beside me, barely restrained. I could feel it—the way he wanted to tear into this, to demand answers, to protect her from being boxed in by adults making decisions over her head.
I wanted to do the same.
Instead, I kept my voice level. “Frankie’s had a day,” I said. “She’s staying here tonight. Movers are on their way. The cats will be here within the hour.”
Maddy’s smile wobbled, and her green eyes so coldly distant from Frankie’s stunning pair as to be ice chips, cut to me in barely suppressed disdain. “Well, of course she’sstayinghere. That was the plan.”
That was the moment my temper strained against the leash.
“The plan,” I repeated, cool as glass, “should have included telling her.”
Silence snapped tight.
Edward frowned, just a little. “Archie?—”
“No,” I said, still calm. Still controlled. “Not right now.”
Jake took a step closer to Frankie, not touching her, just there. Claiming space. Claiming ground.
I stood between them and my father and Maddy Curtis, fully aware that this was a line I was crossing—and fully willing to hold it.
Frankie wasn’t a package. Despite whatever they thought they’d arranged, they were going to learn very quickly that I was not letting this happen unchecked.
Edward shifted his weight, hands loose at his sides, posture open—carefully so. I knew that stance. I’d grown up with it. The reasonable father. The patient one. The man who waited for things to settle so he could claim the high ground.
Suddenly, my mother’s abrupt decision to travel—no warning, no real explanation—clicked into place with ugly clarity.
Of course.
She couldn’t be served divorce papers if she wasn’t in the country. And the prenup—meticulously drafted, obsessively timed—wouldn’t lapse before my birthday, which was only days away.
I felt something dark and bitter curl low in my gut.
Wonderful.
Edward had planned this with the same precision he planned everything else. Delay. Control. Timing. Let the clock do the work while everyone else scrambled to catch up.
I looked at him again, really looked, and saw not concern—but calculation. Not cruelty. Something worse.
Confidence.
My jaw tightened, the leash on my temper cutting deeper. Frankie was still reeling on the couch, Jake barely contained beside her, and my father was standing in our house as if the endgame were already decided.
It wasn’t.
Not even close.
