Page 60 of Broken Blades

I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. Felt suddenly exposed in his kitchen. In his house. In this life I never asked for.

I backed away from the counter. Put the kitchen island between us like it could somehow create actual distance from whatever this was.

Wyatt moved to the dining table. Pulled out his phone with that casual authority that made everything feel inevitable. "We're not done."

I blinked. "What do you mean we're not done?"

"A relationship doesn't begin with a coffee date." He scrolled through his phone without looking up. "We need progression."

My arms folded across my chest automatically. Defensive. "Progression?"

He nodded. Still didn't look at me. "Home-life photos. Casual touches. Being seen together multiple days in a row. Dinner tomorrow."

The words registered slowly. Like my brain needed extra time to process the absurdity.

"Dinner—tomorrow—again? Wyatt, the internet is already hyperventilating."

"Good."

That single word. Flat. Final. Like he'd just declared the sky green and expected no argument.

I dropped my head onto the table with a groan. The cool surface pressed against my forehead. Offered zero comfort but I stayed there, anyway.

"I hate this."

"No, you don't."

My head snapped up fast enough to make me dizzy. "I absolutely do."

He tilted his head. Studied me the way someone might examine a puzzle they'd already solved but found mildly entertaining, anyway. "You handled yourself better than you think."

The words landed somewhere soft. Unexpected. Like he'd reached past my defenses without warning and touched something raw.

A pause stretched between us.

My heart betrayed me with a little flutter. Traitorous organ. Completely unreliable.

I hated that too.

"That doesn't make this easier." My voice came out quieter than I meant. More honest than I wanted.

He set his phone down. Leaned back in the chair. Arms crossed. Mirror image of my defensive posture but somehow he made it look commanding instead of protective.

"It's not supposed to be easy." His gaze held mine. Steady. Unflinching. "It's supposed to be believable."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him there was a difference between believable and sustainable. That I couldn't keep performing every single day. That eventually something would crack and everyone would see through the facade.

But the words stuck in my throat.

Because part of me—a part I absolutely refused to acknowledge—wondered if the performance had already started feeling less like acting and more like something I couldn't name yet.

"How long do we keep this up?" I finally asked. "After dinner tomorrow. Then what?"

He picked his phone back up. Started typing something. "Then we see what your father needs next."

The reminder hit like cold water. This wasn't about me. Wasn't about us. Wasn't even really about the photos or the narrative or selling a love story to strangers.

This was about my father. The merger. Protection from whatever history existed between these two men that neither would fully explain.