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“Fine.” When he doesn’t speak, waiting for me to say more, I give in and tell him, “Lochlan had a tennis court installed here so I played with Betsy this afternoon.”
My father is silent for another long moment. “He built you a tennis court overnight?”
“No, it was just finished today.”
“Huh.” He makes the same noise Cass made when she asked me about his nickname for me. Not that he’s used it recently.
“Is he…treating you well?”
“Yes. I have two female bodyguards who are nice.” And hopefully still breathing.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” he mutters. “I should hire some women for Cass.”
“Maybe so,” I agree.
“Okay, well, I’ll let you get back to your dinner. Vanessa sends her love.” My father doesn’t sound like himself. Maybe he regrets forcing me into a marriage for a business deal. Or maybe he’s still upset that I told him I hated him.
“Tell Vanessa I said hi and hopefully I’ll see her soon.” I lift my gaze to Lochlan’s to see his reaction to that idea. His face remains blank. “And I’m sorry about what I said yesterday.”
“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he says in response.
“Bye, Daddy.”
“Love you, baby girl.”
I don’t return the words. Just because I apologized for saying I hate him it doesn’t mean I’m not still mad at him for using me.
As soon as I end the call, I take the phone back to Lochlan and lay it on the table next to his plate. I don’t want to accidentally see any incriminating messages of the murder or infidelity variety.
“Am I allowed to talk to my dad and family whenever I want?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go see them?”
“Only to visit until we know for sure that you’re not pregnant,” he replies, giving me a pointed look. “When will that be?”
Ugh, he’s asking me when I’m supposed to get my period? I can’t believe we’re talking about this at the dinner table. Is he bringing it up to see if I’ll admit that I got the emergency contraceptive pill? Does it make periods come sooner?
“Sophie?”
“Hold on. I have to try and remember when the last one was,” I huff. A moment later, I tell him the truth, “Maybe in two or three weeks.”
“Maybe? You can’t give me something more concrete than that?”
“No. Mine aren’t ever regular.”
“Why not?”
“My doctor seems to think the irregularity is due to my physical activity.”
We eat the rest of our dinner without mentioning my menstrual cycle again, thankfully. Lochlan does ask me lots of questions about tennis, my instructors, how long I’ve been playing. I don’t think anyone has ever shown so much interest in my boring life.
Before I ask to leave the table after dessert, a raspberry cheesecake that was no doubt supposed to be a reminder of a different one, Lochlan says, “There’s a fundraiser we have to go to on Thursday night. Formal wear. Be ready by eight.”
“Okay,” I agree. “And, um, thank you for hiring Lena and Toni. I like them.” Trying to figure out a way to ask if they’re alive without seeming obvious, I ask, “Will they be with me every day this week?”
“Yes. Every weekday and on weekends if necessary.”
