Page 9 of Dream On, Liar

His head turned, gaze settling on me then, sharp and unyielding. “You wanted to show the world you understand his body and the sport better than he does? Well, now you’ll make sure you’re part of the mess you’ve created for him, and prove it. Here’s your chance to make your name in the sport.”

“Dad. I don’t want this. I didn’t do it for this.”

He paused, just briefly, then shook his head like that wasn’t relevant. “It’s not really about what you want anymore, is it?”

I frowned, waiting him to ask the reason he did it for. Sure, when I’d first accidentally emailed the proposal to my tutor, it had been out of anger. But I had come up with a strong enough argument to stick with it.

But the question never came.

“When you decide to make things public,” he said, quieter now, “you don’t get to expect private explanations to matter. As you said, you’ve been working on this for nearly two years now. You had plenty of time to tell me all about it. Now…I simply don’t care to know.”

I swallowed, taking a step back. There wasn’t anything left either of us could say that would make me want to stay any longer. He’d already said the one thing I never wanted to hear.

Or so I thought.

“But Maeve?”A deep frown settled over his features, like he was holding something back, deciding whether it was worth saying. I wished, for once, he’d chosen not to. “I have to say…” he went on, and this time there was no hesitation, “this is the first time you’ve managed to disappoint me.”

The words settled, heavier than they had any right to be.

“I hope,” he added, “you do enough with this chance to make sure someone else’s career isn’t collateral damage the next time you want a little trouble. Though,” a faint edge crept in, “it’s clear you don’t feel any remorse over it.”

I didn’t give him the chance to see my reaction, turning and showing myself the door to make sure I left before the first tear could fall.

3

Rihaan

GOING TO OUR FAMILY estate always felt like circling a timed bomb, and unlike my siblings, who avoided this place like it was second nature, there was something about this place I still loved. And if recent events were anything to go by, avoidance had a shelf life, and mine clearly expired.

There was a time when Sunday luncheons with our father had meant more than just me—which meant, there was space for his criticism to float around, even if it usually landed on Dev, who had never cared much for our father’s opinion anyway. Being groomed by our grandfather to take over his company had given him a kind of certainty our father had never managed to shake. He knew exactly whose approval mattered, and it had never really been our father’s.

But even after our grandfather passed and Dev took over Singhania Diamonds, the rhythm didn’t disappear. Between my tours, and Dev’s habit of turning up at F1 weekends for Vedant, it all still folded into something that resembled routine. Something that in its own way, still passed for family bonding.

But once the truth about our father’s secret life came out, it became easier, almost instinctive, to let go of whatever that dysfunctional version of family we had been. The weekends didn’t stop, not entirely, but the illusion did. We were no longer pretending to be the sons he’d quietly cared about while he picked apart every decision we’d made since the last time we’d seen him. Not when the son he barely spoke to, Vedant, and the daughter he never spoke about were already living lives he had no interest in understanding.

Our father had always been good at wreckage, at smiling just enough to make you question your own anger before pulling the ground out from under you. It didn't mean much that I hadn't given in to the urge, the one that flared every time I stood in my kitchen with my keys in hand, watching the clock tick down, silently waiting for the part of me that still wanted to go to his house to win out and drag me there, as though history were something that could be negotiated with if you knocked politely enough.

No.

All it had done was give him space to push me into a corner, until there was only room left for his version of hurt, neatly folded around his criticism.

And now, even after he’d gone on the biggest sports show in the country and managed to turn my life into an even bigger talking point that it had been before he meddled without a care for what I’d have to say about it, I still found myself standing outside the estate.

A few feet from the door.

Close enough to see the faint reflection of myself in the glass door of our ivy-clad stone house, warped just slightly, like even that couldn’t decide what version of me was about to walk in.

It was almost laughable. All that distance, all that resolve, reduced to a stretch of gravel and a door I knew too well.

My grip tightened around my keys. I could already picture how it would go, the way it always did. He’d open the door like he hadn’t expected me, like I hadn’t been the one to close the distance. He’d let me in without asking why I’d come, as if reasons were optional, as if showing up was explanation enough.

And I’d let him.

Because for all the clarity I seemed to find when I was miles away, it had a way of dissolving the second I stood here, within reach of him, within reach of the version of us that had never quite existed the way I wanted it to.

My hand lifted, hovering just short of the door.

I told myself I could still leave. But I was already pushing the door open and stepping inside. The instinct to move was stronger than the hesitation that warned to stop me, as I crossed the threshold like I’d done it a thousand times before. The familiar scent of polished wood and something faintly citrus clung to the air, unchanged, like the house had been waiting to prove that some things didn’t shift just because everything else had.