“Ryder,” Dad continues, oblivious, “this is Frankie, my daughter. And Frankie, this is my business partner, Ryder.”
Knox’s mouth twitches like he’s swallowing words. “Frankie?” He clears his throat, as if the name scraped its way through disbelief.
I manage a tight smile. “Ryder?”
Dad glances between us, curious. “I’m sorry…have you two already met?”
“No,” we lie in unison, too fast, like a reflex we both wish we didn’t have.
I extend a shaky hand. “Nice to meet you. And only my dad, and my late mother, call me that. It’s Francesca Camille.Camifor short.”
Knox clears his throat, his grip firm and warm, electricity unfurling up my arm.God, please tell me Dad didn’t see that.
“Mont here calls me Ryder. Full name’sKnoxRyder.”
“Wait…” A snicker breaks free. “Mont?”
Dad chuckles, proud. “Short for Beaumont.”
“Your father and I’ve never really been on a first-name basis,” Knox explains as ifthisis the most relevant detail in the room. “When he began calling me Ryder, he immediately became Mont.”
My pulse ricochets. My glass trembles, bubbles racing upward like the air’s too thin for this bizarre new world I’ve fallen into. One where my summer fling and my dad already havenicknames. A world where our epic love story finale doesn’t end with swelling music or a tearful kiss. No. This one ends with my overprotective father’s disapproval. Because no version of Oliver Beaumont will allow hisbusiness partnerto fall for his daughter.
Knox’s gaze meets mine over the rim of his glass, and it holds an unspoken reckoning neither of us can outrun.
The room tilts.
Or maybe it’s me.
Heat climbs my neck, and suddenly the glittering chandeliers blur into streaks of light. The crowd’s laughter turns hollow, echoing in my ears like I’m submerged underwater.
I mumble something—an excuse, I think—and slip away, heels clicking too loud on marble flooring that leads to the ladies’ room.
Inside, it’s more marble and mirrors and women reapplying lipstick like the Earth hasn’t started to sway. I grip the sink, splash cold water on my face, and meet my own reflection head-on.
Is this what real-life crossover feels like? Crash. Full-speed. No survivors?
I press a towel to my face, forcing slow breaths. I can’t fall aparthere. Not in front of donors and executives and whatever gods of irony orchestrated this mess.
Tucked against the far wall, a velvet-upholstered lounge waits, obnoxiously plush, lending spa vibes to a room funded by five-figure donations. I sink into it, heels slipping off, heart hammering.
I should text Paxton. Let him know our weekend plans are canceled.
Me: Scratch Vermont. You’ll never believe who’s at the gala.
His reply is immediate.
Paxton: Should I be sitting for this?
Me: Knox. Who is apparently my dad’s business partner. They’re literal work husbands with nicknames. Ryder and Mont.
Paxton: GIRL. What the actual hell? Are you okay??
Me: Nope. I need tequila. But I can’t drink. So I ran to the ladies’ room instead. I have to pull it together and go back out there.
Paxton: Wait. Does your dad know his beloved work bro has been doing the horizontal limbo with his daughter?
Me: Knox and I deserve an Oscar for how well we played it off.
