I’m getting closer. To him. To the house. To the tight, suffocating walls where my grief still lingers.
The sounds of Los Angeles bleed through the crack in my window—revving engines, some asshole laying on his horn like it’ll make traffic move faster, a siren wailing down Sunset Boulevard, and a half-naked guy on the corner shouting about the end of days while holding a yoga mat and a green juice.
You know. The fucking usual.
I shift in my seat as I finally turn onto his street. Everything here feels fake and polished. Wide pavements with no potholes, palm trees lined up, their trunks trimmed and perfect, just like the rest of the people in this godforsaken zip code. The iron gates come into view, all black, gleaming, and stupidly intimidating.
I roll my eyes as I tap the code in.
The moment they slide open, my stomach turns into a knotted mess. Not butterflies. Not nerves. Just dread—and the sour taste of tequila still clinging to my tongue. I finally pull into the driveway, winding around the manicured hedges and the fountain that looks like it’s been stolen from a luxury hotel.
The house stands tall at the top of the hill, all black and white concrete and floor-to-ceiling windows like it’s trying too hard to be impressive.
It’s so goddamn ugly.
An unsettling stillness hangs in the air as I stare up at the house.
I square my shoulders as I climb out of my car. My grip tightens on the strap of my Louis Vuitton duffle as I march straight through the front door without knocking, because why the fuck would I? He owns the house, but I still have a set of keys.
I spot him exactly where I knew he’d be—behind the sleek, overpriced bar in the living room, pouring two fingers of scotch like this is just another day for him.
His back is to me, his shoulders tense beneath one of his many perfectly tailored Armani suits. His dark brown hair is slicked back with a precision that can only come from a personal grooming team.
“I was wondering when you’d finally grow a fucking conscience.” His voice cuts clean through the silence, too calm for someone who just watched his daughter burn through almost three hundred thousand dollars.
I drop my duffle onto the leather couch, crossing my arms over my chest, arching a brow.
“I didn’t come back for a TED Talk, Dad. Just slap me on the wrist and let’s get it over with. I’ve got shit to do. Erewhon’s probably out of my twenty-dollar smoothies already.”
The corners of my lips twitch as my hands shoot up to stifle the laugh bubbling in my throat, because this whole situation is fucking ridiculous. He’s been throwing black cards at me for years as if they’re chew toys, all to make sure I’d stay far away and never ask for his time.
But now he wants to play Dad of the Year?
“You think this is a lecture, Catalina?” he says, turning to face me as he swirls the scotch in his glass. “A lecture would imply I expect you to fucking listen.”
Oh.
I push the tears back down, swallowing them like poison, just as I’ve done a thousand times before. My chin lifts, even though my throat burns.
“Don’t act so shocked,” I snap. “You act like this is my first offense. So what, I drained your precious account again? Boo-fucking-hoo. What’s your issue this time?”
His jaw flexes. But like always, he smooths it out with a slow, calculated sip of his overpriced scotch, the kind of move he probably learned in boardrooms and behind closed doors with people who never tell him no.
“There’s a difference,” he says, his voice low and calculated, “between taking care of your daughter and funding a grown woman’s bad habits.”
I don’t flinch, but something in me stirs.
“Catalina,” he says, like my name’s something bitter on his tongue. “After last night’s stunt, I pulled your financial statements. Do you have any fucking idea how much you’ve spent in the last three months?”
His tone is calm, but that kind of calm is worse. He starts listing shit off like it’s a grocery list.
“Five-star hotels, designer clothes, overnight jet trips to Ibiza, alcohol, and whatever the fuck else you think you need to survive.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.
Because I don’t fucking know.
I’ve never once checked the totals. I swipe. Tap. Spend. Filling the void with things that sparkle, taste good, and make me forget the grief that I’m living with.
