Dad.
Of course.
A tight knot formed in my gut. He never called this late unless he wanted something.
I stepped into the hall, closing the door gently behind me. “Yeah?”
“Come home,” my father’s voice was clipped, sharp. “Now.”
Click.
No explanation. No room for argument.
I stared at the phone for a beat, jaw tightening.
Then I looked back at the door, heart aching.
“I’ll be back, Brit,” I murmured under my breath. “I promise.”
---
The house was quiet when I got there.
Too quiet.
Our house was always cold, always polished, always perfect — like walking into a museum, like living inside a glass case.
I hated it.
“Dad?” I called softly, stepping inside.
“Office,” came the sharp reply.
I swore under my breath, raking a hand through my hair, and made my way down the hall.
The door was already cracked open.
I stepped inside — and stopped short.
My father was there, of course, behind his massive mahogany desk, the city skyline glowing behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
But I hadn’t expected the other man.
Sierra’s father.
My stomach dropped.
“Ace,” my father said smoothly, folding his hands on the desk. “Good. Sit.”
I didn’t move.
My eyes flicked to Sierra’s father — tall, graying, sharp-eyed, wearing a smug little smile like he knew something I didn’t.
I hated that smile.
“What’s going on?” I said flatly.
My father leaned back in his chair, studying me like I was some negotiation he was about to win.
