Paxton: Got the press release draft all written up. Send to your inbox?
Thank God.
Knox walked me through what happened on that late-night call from Jenna, and we stayed up till dawn building a plan. One that protects him, protects me, protects what we’re becoming.
Release the divorce news.
Let a polished photo of usslipinto the right hands.
Control the narrative before she twists it into something it’s not.
And Paxton’s the exact person you want crafting words that’ll start a media firestorm.
Me: Yes. And thank you! You’re the best.
Paxton: Damn right.
I smile, grateful we’ve been friends so long. Dad’s been holding a finance role for Paxton at Beaumont Group; his Wall Street internship, and his help with this, should speed things along.
My phone chirps again.
Knox: Not murdered.
A relieved breath hits, pulse leaping.
Knox: He wants to speak with you.
My chest tightens, fingers going cold.
Me: Is he furious?
Anxiety threatens to spike, but Shadow nudges my ankle like she can sense my heartbeat rattling out of rhythm.
Knox: No, baby. We’re headed to you now. Be there in twenty.
I’m halfway into a pair of dark jeans and a striped button-down Pamela had sent over when the front door closes, their voices drifting inside. Knox first, then my dad.
Heart thudding, I fasten the last button and step into the living room, where Stripe and Shadow are planted in front of my dad like newly sworn-in officers conducting their first interrogation.
Dad’s hands hover awkwardly at his sides, like he’s unsure whether to kneel, run, or negotiate with the authorities blocking his path.
Knox meets my eyes, a silentare you okay? threaded through the tension, and I smile in response.
“They don’t bite, Dad,” I tease, stepping forward to wrap him in a hug.
He exhales, one sharp, shaky breath, and his arms close around me with more force than I expect. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Knox clears his throat. “I’ll take these two into the bedroom,” he says, scooping Stripe as Shadow trots after him. “Let you two talk out here. In private.”
Dad gives him a tight, grateful nod, one that saysthank youwithout surrendering an inch of authority. Knox returns it with equal respect, then disappears down the hallway, kittens chirping in protest as the door clicks shut behind them.
The apartment falls quiet.
Dad’s shoulders drop a fraction as he takes a seat beside me on the couch, the expression on his face saying this conversation is going to matter.
“Frankie,” he says, eyes searching mine. “Start from the beginning. I want to hear the whole story. Your words. Not anyone else’s.”
After a long breath, I explain everything.
