He wore navy suits, gave calm opinions about interest rates, and made people feel safe while buying entire companies out from under families who’d built them.
“Richard Montgomery is your father,” she said slowly.
“Yeah.”
“But you’re Travers.”
“My mother’s name.”
Her expression softened at the edges.
I hated that more than shock.
“I should’ve told you,” I said. “Before we got on the plane. Before I bought the damn tickets. Before we were sitting in my father’s driveway like a hostage briefing.”
She didn’t speak.
So I kept going.
“He hates football.”
Her brows pulled together. “He hates football?”
“Despises it. Thinks it’s violent, stupid, temporary, and bad for long-term brain function.” I dragged a hand over my jaw. “He only tolerated Stanford because Stanford looks good on a CEO bio. Student-athlete. Discipline. Leadership. Elite network. All that bullshit. In his mind, football is a hobby I should outgrow before it damages the brand.”
Isa’s mouth tightened.
“He wants you to come home and work for him.”
“Run things eventually,” I said. “If I stop embarrassing him first.”
“By playing football?”
“By pretending I get to choose my own life.”
The words sat between us.
Ugly.
True.
Her fingers turned under mine and squeezed.
“What else?” she asked.
I looked toward the house. “I have stepbrothers. Everett and Beckett. Everett is older. Perfect Montgomery heir. Finance degree. Summer analyst. Already works at the firm when he’s not pretending nepotism is a personality. Beckett is younger. Prettier. Looser. More dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
I hesitated.
Her eyes sharpened.
“Drew.”
“They like games,” I said. “They like making people uncomfortable. Especially people I bring around.”
“Women?”
