Page 38 of Dream On, Liar

“You've joined us in less than ideal circumstances,” my father continued. “The players were a little on edge. They know there's going to be more attention on them because of your paper, whether that's fair or not. But I mean it, Eve. From everything I'd heard so far, I thought it was going well.”

Despite myself, some of the tension eased from my shoulders. His voice was completely genuine, and it had been enough for a small, reluctant part of me to take comfort in it. The use of my nickname had done the rest of the work.

Especially compared to the anger I'd heard in his voice last week, and the disappointment that had lingered long after our conversation ended, this felt like progress.

The thought made something twist uncomfortably in my chest.

Over the past week, between Samyra's words and my own guilt, I'd spent a fair amount time thinking about my father words. Thinking about our argument. Thinking about the things we'd both said. Thinking about the apology I'd never quite managed to give him, and how today I’d come in prepared to finally say it.

Only before I could speak, my father beat me to it. “Which brings me to my next question. What happened with Rihaan?”

I felt my spine straighten instantly, a scowl settling on my features. “You’ve allowed him to have his personal PT.”

A conflicted look crossed his face. “I did.”

“Well, if I didn’t think he was entitled before…” I trailed off, the implication clear in my tone.

My father leaned back slightly in his chair. "Oh, don’t start again. He's just upset."

I stared at him across the desk, genuinely unsure whether I'd heard him correctly. The office suddenly felt smaller than it had when I'd walked in before. "That's your explanation?"

My father sighed, leaning back in his chair. "It's part of it. I’ve known Rihaan most of his life, and I know that he just needs to do this before he comes around to the idea of you being in this role."

The annoying thing was that I already knew that. I'd known it the second Rihaan walked into the treatment room. Understanding his reaction wasn't the problem.

The problem was the understanding seemed to come so easily for my father, when it was Rihaan. And yet, even now he had barely hinted at knowing the reasons that sat behind my decision to publish—to write—the paper.

Shaking my head, I frowned. “Shall I remind you that it was your idea for me to come and join the squad? And how I’d expressed that I was perfectly happy in my previous role—and now, suddenly, because your golden boy is upset, you’re more than happy for me to feel I need to be micro-managed?”

“He feels singled out,” my father pointed out. “This is just him being defensive.”

"I've worked hard to get here," I said quietly.

"I know you have."

No, I don't think you do.

It’s what I wanted to say, instead I glanced at the watch on my wrist, I pushed myself up. “I should get back.”

He nodded, tapping his desk twice with the side of his finger. “The reality of this is that whether you meant to or not: you questioned decisions he's spent years defending. You don't get to do that and expect the fallout to disappear because you've walked through the door with a positive attitude. Did you expect him to roll out the red carpet and welcome you with open arms?”

“I expected him to throw a tantrum.” I frowned. “I didn’t expect you to make it so easy for him.”

“It’s the bed you made for yourself, Trouble.” He relented, though my heart barely stirred at the sound of my nickname. “You’ll have to give it time before it starts to feel comfortable.”

“I wasn't trying to challenge him.” I admitted, my voice quieter than I’d intended.

“No. You were trying to make a point.” His voice softened slightly. “But from where he's standing, there isn't much difference.”

Silence settled over us, and if anything, I felt more frustrated than when I'd walked in, but before I could tell him, or try to make him understand my point of view, I just nodded before pulling the door open.

And nearly walking straight into the last person I wanted to see.

Rihaan was leaning against the wall next to the office, one shoulder resting lazily against the brickwork, his arms folded across his chest.

Waiting.

The second our eyes met, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.