“We’re not having a casual chat,” my dad says coldly.
Jake doesn’t flinch. “If you want answers, this is the way you get them.”
My heart stutters.
Answers.
Oh God.
The truth sits there like a live grenade in Jake’s mouth.
I see it in the flex of his jaw. In the way his eyes flick to mine for half a second.
He wants to say it.
Wants to tear the bandage off and drop the truth between us. The Vegas chapel. The marriage license. The missed deadline. The divorce hanging over our heads.
I can see the decision forming.
But I can’t let him.
Because my dad won’t just be angry.
He’ll go nuclear.
He’ll tear Jake apart. He’ll tear me apart. He’ll tear the team apart if it means regaining control.
And he will drag me home like I’m sixteen again.
I can’t let that happen.
I take a breath.
Then another.
And before Jake can open his mouth again, I step forward into the space between them, forcing myself to smile like this is all normal.
Like this is just a misunderstanding.
“Okay,” I say brightly. Too brightly. “Yes. Let’s sit down.”
My dad’s gaze snaps to me, suspicious.
I lead the way into the living room like I’m hosting a dinner party instead of trying to prevent my life from exploding.
“Dad,” I say, forcing steadiness into my voice, “sit. Please.”
He follows, stiff and furious, scanning the room as if he expects proof of sin to be hanging from the ceiling. Jake moves after him, quiet. I hover near the fireplace, my pulse still racing.
My father doesn’t sit. He stands in the middle of the living room, hands on hips, staring at me like he’s waiting for the real explanation to crawl out.
“Now,” he says. One word. Commanding. “Talk.”
Jake inhales as if about to speak.
But I beat him to it again.
“Dad,” I say quickly, “I should have told you sooner.”
