No conditions to make me jump through any hoops.
If my father’s business fails, it fails honestly. I won’t let it be propped up by threats against the woman I love.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. The memory of her song from the club surfaces again, but this time, I hear it differently. Not as anger. Not as an accusation.
As a boundary.
She doesn’t need me to rescue her. She needs me to stand steady on my own two feet and to remain the same, with or without her.
I’m six weeks in now.
That means I’m halfway to the fight.
It’s too late to undo what I’ve done.
But it’s not too late to decide who I’ll be when the bell rings.
It’s three weeks until the gala, when Andi’s life will take yet another major turn, another significant transformation that changes everything.
For the first time since everything exploded, I’m not thinking about how to win her back. I’m thinking about how to show up for her without flinching. I’m thinking about giving her what she needs regardlessof what it costs me. Because she does that reflexively for everyone in her life.
If she never forgives me, that’s mine to live with.
But I will not hesitate again.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ANDI
“I’m not going,” I tell Tania, even though the determined set of her shoulders makes it clear the decision has already been taken out of my hands.
She stands in the center of my bedroom, hands planted firmly on her hips, surveying my closet like a general preparing for battle. Within seconds, she’s stripping hangers from the rack and tossing garments onto the bed, muttering about fabric weight, structure, and the tragic state of my formalwear options.
“You are absolutely going,” she declares without looking at me. “And we arefixing this.”
I try to protest again, but the words collapse before they fully form. The truth is, I’m not afraid of the dress or the cameras. I’m afraid of the exposure. Of standing under lights bright enough to light up every shadow I’ve spent years learning to control.
Still, I let her pull me out of the house.
After hours of fittings, tailoring adjustments, and careful side-eye from sales associates who clearly recognize my last name, we finally settle on a gown that feels less like decoration and more like armor. Navy and silver sequins shimmer against black silk, catching the light without begging for attention. One long sleeve completely conceals my tattooed arm, while the other leaves my shoulder and back bare—elegant, deliberate, unapologetic. The slit is daring without being reckless.
It feels intentional.
At the salon, I hesitate only briefly before agreeing to cover the pink streaks in my hair. I added them years ago to make the kids at the youth center feel comfortable and to remind them that authority doesn’t have to look rigid or distant. Tonight, however, the board needs to see something else. Stability. Poise. Predictability.
As the color works through my hair and the pink disappears beneath the blonde, I watch my reflection shift. The womanstaring back at me looks polished. Controlled. Almost untouchable.
I’m not sure whether that comforts me or unsettles me.
