“Right…” I whispered.
He started the engine, the car rumbling to life. “I’ll have to drop you off… but what do you say we get dinner later this week? Just the two of us.”
My head snapped up, my eyes widening. The fear of Papa was momentarily eclipsed by a rush of pure joy. “Y-yes… Yes, please…”
A small, genuine smile finally broke through his anger. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “You have to at least try to hide your excitement, baby…”
I flushed deep red, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek in return, a silent thank-you for giving me something to look forward to amidst the chaos.
Our first official date. I could already feel the butterflies taking flight.
Chapter twenty-three
Ingrid
Returning home after my night with Tristian felt wrong in a way I couldn’t name, even more so knowing my father was angry at my indiscretion. The silence of the house was heavy. Letting go of his hand in the car had been physically painful. My hand still felt the shape and warmth of his. The absence of it made everything worse. Now, back within these walls, all I wanted was to be with him again. But I had to wait.
I retreated to my room, seeking solace in the mindless task of straightening the books on my shelf. I lit a vanilla candle, watching the flame flicker, but I couldn’t relax.
The quiet was shattered by a sudden commotion rising from the foyer.
I froze, my heart hammering. I knew I should stay hidden, but a stupid curiosity drew me toward the door. I crept to the top of the stairs. The voices were clear now, echoing off the marble floors: my father and Camila.
“I asked you several times. Where the hell have you been for the last four days?!” Papa bellowed.
Camila’s response was a sharp, biting scoff. “None of your fuckingbusiness.”
“You think you’re not any of my fucking business? Do you think I like watching my daughter whore herself out and ruin my reputation on these damn streets?!”
“You’re already whoring the other one out so you can make a few extra dollars with your business partner! How am I any different?”
My hands went clammy. The wordwhoringfelt like a physical slap.
“You keep your fucking mouth shut,” he seethed.
Camila laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “Or what? Are you going to discipline me, or do you only hit the daughter you like to control—”
The sound of a hand striking flesh cracked through the air like a gunshot. The silence that followed was suffocating. I winced, pressing my back against the wall. A moment later, footsteps stormed toward the stairs.
“Fuck this shit,” I heard her mutter.
She ascended the steps, her hand pressed to a reddening cheek. Halfway up, she stopped. Our eyes met. For a heartbeat, I saw a flicker of something—pity, maybe, or shared exhaustion—but she didn’t speak. She simply continued past me and slammed her bedroom door shut.
I looked back down to the foyer. My father was standing at the base of the stairs, staring up, shoulders rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. His dress shirt hung open at the throat, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, forearms taut and veined like he’d been clenching his fists in anger.
He didn’t yell. He simply raised his hand and beckoned me down with two fingers.
I debated running back into the safety of my room, but the command in his gaze was absolute.
Every step down felt heavier than the last. I reached the bottom, fidgeting with my fingers, as he poured himself a glass of whiskey.
“Sit,” he said stoically.
I sank onto the edge of the sofa, keeping my head bowed. He took a slow sip of his drink, watching me, measuring how to handle me after the outburst from Camila.
Finally he spoke. “How are things with Locke’s son?”
I bit my lip, my voice a mere thread. “T-they… they’ve been fine…”
