“Estrella.”
Flat.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
“Hola, Papá.”
A pause.
Then, in Spanish, clipped and sharp enough to slice straight through the morning:
“Tell me you did not disappear to Newport withthat boyand let the whole world photograph it. I told you not to leave campus without your bodyguard.”
There it is.
I lean against the cool cinder-block wall and close my eyes for one second.
Not because I’m intimidated. Because I need patience. “I was safe. I was with Tristan. And he isn’t.. ‘that boy’. He’s everything to me.”
“That’s new.”
“No, really it isn’t.”
“I loved him before I even knew you.”
“Stella.” His voice is pure protective father mode now—old-world power, expensive control, the full impossible force of a man who came into my life late and intends to make up for itpartly by being furious on my behalf about things I no longer need fury for.
I understand it.
I do.
I just can’t let him steer this one.
“Yes,” I say. “I went to Newport with Tristan...”
He exhales once through his nose, the sound like a blade being drawn.
“Stella.”
“No,” I say immediately, my own voice sharpening. “You called me. You can listen.”
Silence.
Not because he’s happy.
Because I surprised him.
Good.
I push off the wall and start pacing the empty hallway, blood up now for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
“He didn’t take me there to parade me around,” I say. “He took me there to fix something he broke.”
“Fix it?” Emmanuel snaps. “With photographs? With a dance? With a hotel?”
My jaw tightens.
