Page 112 of Broken Blades

She looked up at me. Searching. Uncertain. "Why not?"

Because you're mine to protect now, whether I planned it or not.

Because leaving you wasn't an option.

Because something shifted last night and I can't put it back.

I didn't say any of that. Instead, I reached out and wiped a smudge of soot off her cheek with my thumb.

"Because you'd have gotten kidnapped. And that would've ruined my reputation."

Her laugh came soft. Surprised. Real.

And I realized—standing in my smoke-filled kitchen with a girl who couldn't cook and couldn't lie and couldn't stop breaking through every wall I'd built—I was already completely screwed.

I pulled up the pizza place on my phone. "What do you want?"

She leaned against the counter, still flushed from the smoke disaster. "I don't know. What do you usually get?"

"Supreme. Extra pepperoni."

"That works."

I started to order, then paused. "No pineapple arguments?"

Her nose wrinkled. "Why would I argue about pineapple?"

"Some people have opinions."

"About fruit on pizza?" She shook her head. "I have bigger things to worry about than tropical controversy."

I almost smiled. Almost. "Smart."

I placed the order—thirty minutes—and set the phone down. She moved to the table, pulling out a chair. I followed, taking the seat across from her. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable exactly, just… weighted.

Finally, I broke it. "I would've expected your father to make sure you knew how to cook."

She blinked, caught off guard. "Why?"

"Traditional guy. Big on image, presentation, legacy. Figured he'd want his daughter to have the whole package."

Her laugh came bitter. "My dad didn't raise me to be domestic. He raised me to take over."

I leaned back, studying her. "Take over what?"

"Everything." She traced a pattern on the table with her finger. "His company. His vision. His legacy. He started preparing me for it when I was fifteen."

"You mean grooming?"

She made a face. "I don't like that word."

I ignored her. "Grooming you how?"

"Business meetings. Strategy sessions. Financial reports." She shrugged, but tension lined her shoulders. "While other girls were learning to bake cookies, I was learning to read quarterly statements. He'd bring me to investor dinners, teach me how to work a room, how to remember names and faces. How to be useful."

That word landed heavy. Useful.

"He wanted you in the business that badly?"