At first, I thought it was thunder. A low, rolling rumble from up near the road, building fast. But it didn’t fade—it got sharper, faster, and soon the rattle resolved itself into the unmistakable sound of expensive engines.
Macon stiffened, and I felt the change in him. The protector, the soldier, sliding on over the gentle. He pulled away, putting himself between me and the door before I’d even registered the risk.
A car came into view around the side of the barn, tires crunching on the gravel. It was black, low and sleek, a sedan you only saw in airports or on the cover of Forbes.
It had Texas plates.
I didn’t need to see the driver to know who it was. My stomach dropped, hard. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
“It’s okay,” Macon said, reading me like a manual. “You don’t have to see him. Not if you don’t want to.”
I shook my head, forcing the panic down. “He’ll come looking.”
“Let him,” Macon said, voice stone. “He doesn’t get to hurt you here.”
I tried to remember that I was safe, that I had choices now. But every muscle in my body was ready to run.
The car braked, door opening with crisp, mechanical clicks. I watched through the workshop window, not moving, as my father stepped out onto the gravel, immaculate as always—dark suit, sunglasses, tie sharp enough to slit a throat. He scannedthe yard, gaze skating over the barn and house, then fixed on the shop door.
He raised a hand, beckoning.
I felt Macon’s hand on my back, steady, not pushing. “If you want, I’ll handle it,” he said.
I shook my head. “No. I need to do it.”
He nodded, and I felt the pressure ease, just a little.
“Want me with you?”
I looked at him, really looked, and in that moment I knew: I didn’t want to hide behind anyone, but I also didn’t want to be alone. Not ever again.
“Yeah,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “But let me talk first.”
He followed as I walked out of the shop, close enough to catch me if I tripped. The air outside was cold, but I barely noticed. Every sense was tuned to my father, standing in the driveway with his hands in his pockets, the world revolving around him like always.
He took off his sunglasses as I approached, eyes cool and assessing. “Carter,” he said, like a greeting and an accusation in one.
“Dad.”
He looked me up and down, taking in the flannel, the jeans, the way my hands trembled a little. His gaze lingered at my stomach, then flicked to Macon, then back to me. “So it’s true,” he said, voice flat. “You’ve made a mess.”
I clenched my jaw, refusing to flinch. “I’m happy,” I said.
He made a face, a little curl of the lip. “That’s not the word I’d use.”
Macon stepped forward, just a half-step, and for once my father looked unsure. “Is there something you want?” Macon asked, polite as a buzz-saw.
My father ignored him, keeping his gaze on me. “I’m giving you a chance,” he said. “To come back to Texas. We’ll handlethis quietly. There’s no need to throw away your future over a… mistake.”
The words landed like blows. I felt my fingernails digging into my palms. “It’s not a mistake,” I said, voice clear. “It’s my life.”
He snorted. “This? You think any of this is real?” He waved a hand at the farmhouse, the barn, the man beside me. “You belong in the city, Carter. You’re not cut out for this.”
Macon was a wall at my back, unmoving, unmovable.
I looked at my father, really looked, and saw for the first time how tired he was. How afraid. “I don’t want your life,” I said, soft. “I never did.”
He glared, waiting for me to back down, but I didn’t.
