"Dad," she said flatly, "what do you want?" This update is available on NoveI-Fire.ɴet
Tom finally turned to face her fully, his eyes calculating, his smile razor-thin. "I need you to attend House of Kane’s party tomorrow."
Sylvia’s heart kicked in her chest, panic flashing across her features. "Dad, no!" she barked, the sharpness in her voice betraying more fear than defiance. "I promised Winn I wouldn’t be anywhere near a drop of alcohol. He’ll kill me if I screw this up." And worse, she thought bitterly, she’d kill herself if she slipped back into the whirlpool waiting on the bottom of a champagne flute.
"I’ll give you anything," Tom said quickly, seizing the hesitation in her voice. He leaned closer. "Anything you want, Sylvia. Just do exactly as I say."
"I really don’t want anything," she murmured, shrugging one shoulder as if the weight of his scheming rolled off her back.
"Sweetie," Tom coaxed. He leaned closer. "Do this one thing for me. I know what you truly want. We both know who... you truly want." His pause lingered, the implication hanging.
Sylvia stiffened, her spine straightening as if she’d been caught naked in a spotlight. Her heart thumped a little faster, because she knew damn well what name he was baiting her with. "What are you talking about, Dad?" she asked.
"You do me this one favor," Tom continued smoothly, his eyes glinting, "and I’ll pave the way for you to get Joey. I’ll make sure the door that slammed in your face gets opened again."
Her mouth went dry. Joey. The love of her chaotic, wrecked life. The only good choice she had ever made before her addiction gutted it. She remembered the way his hand used to fit in hers, grounding her when her world spun, the way his laugh had once been the soundtrack to her best days. The memory alone made her chest ache. She had lost him when she lost herself.
And here was her father, dangling him like a prize. Sylvia bit her lip, torn between rage at the manipulation and longing so raw it nearly choked her.
"What do you want me to do?" she whispered, because desire had already beaten logic into submission.
Tom’s smile widened. "That’s my girl." Then he leaned in, close enough for her to catch the faint scent of scotch on his breath, and began to outline his plan.
Steve stopped by Ivy’s little townhouse with a bouquet of red roses clutched in his sweaty grip. He wasn’t planning on giving up, not after everything. Yes, he had fucked up—spectacularly. He rehearsed his lines as he climbed her porch steps: You’re the love of my life, Ivy. I made a mistake. I’ll do better. Please forgive me.
He knocked, shifting from foot to foot, trying to arrange his face into the perfect blend of remorse and devotion. A few minutes later, the door creaked open. But instead of Ivy’s wide, cautious eyes, he was greeted by Trish.
She looked him up and down, then rolled her eyes. Without bothering to step aside, she turned her head and hollered back into the house. "Ivy! Your boyfriend is here!" She didn’t even bother to hide the sarcasm dripping from the word boyfriend.
"Hi, Trish. How are you doing?" Steve asked, clutching the bouquet, his smile forced.
Trish cocked a brow, leaning against the doorframe. "Uh-uh..." she mumbled, the syllables flat as week-old champagne.
Before Steve could attempt another awkward pleasantry, heels clicked against hardwood, and Ivy appeared. She stepped out in a red halter-neck mini bodycon dress, rhinestones shimmering on her chest. The dress hugged her curves.
Steve nearly forgot how to breathe. His throat went dry, the flowers almost slipping from his fingers. "Steve? What are you doing here? I told you I need time," Ivy said.
"You look stunning," he blurted. It came out too fast, too needy.
He jumped at the opening, thrusting the bouquet toward her. "I brought you these."
She accepted them without fanfare. Her eyes flicked back to his.
"Are you going somewhere?"
"A work thing," she answered simply, not giving him more than he deserved.
"Well, have fun," he said, forcing cheer into his tone. Then he added, "I was thinking... would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow? I promise, I won’t mention anything about getting back together. Just... a date."
"I can’t. I’ll be seeing my mum tomorrow." The firmness in her tone left no room for negotiation.
"We’ll see how it goes," Ivy replied. Without another word, she closed the door.
Inside, Trish smirked from her perch on the arm of the sofa. "Tell me you got wise and kicked his broke ass to the curb."
Ivy exhaled. "He has a job now," she defended softly.
"Yippee," Trish drawled, rolling her eyes so hard they nearly clicked.
"I caught him cheating," Ivy announced. The confession hung, filling the room with bitterness neither of them could ignore.
Trish shot up straighter, outrage painted across her features. "Son of a bitch. Are you kidding me? Who cheats with no dime in his pockets?"
"Trish..." Ivy groaned, tugging her clutch tighter under her arm. "Everything is not about money. How many times am I going to tell you that?"
"Oh, you sweet summer child." Trish sighed dramatically, shaking her head. She leaned forward, wagging a manicured finger. "Wake up."
Ivy rolled her eyes and turned to dump the flowers Steve had brought straight into the trash bin by the door. The petals crumpled under the weight of her rejection, their fragrance a reminder of apologies she wasn’t ready to believe.
"He was right about one thing though."
"What?" Ivy quipped, suspicion raising her brow.
"You look stunning," Trish admitted, her lips curling despite herself.
Ivy allowed a small, genuine smile to bloom. "Thank you. I’m getting late though. I’ll just get an Uber." She grabbed her phone, heart thrumming.
The House of Kane’s celebratory party was a spectacle, a marriage of old money grandeur and new money decadence. The courtyard outside the glass-and-steel headquarters had been transformed with cascading lights, champagne fountains, and seating pods. High society men mingled with corporate sharks.