I wake up to a pounding sound that I assume is my brain telling me how angry it is at me. Ignoring the ache, I tug a pillow over my head. Pounding ensues again, but it sounds like it’s coming from the door instead of my head.
Oh shit.
Memories flood my brain of me getting drunk and throwing up on Jax.
I crawl out of bed, rubbing the sleep away from my eyes as I open my hotel door to a fuming James Mitchell.
“Hi, Dad.” My voice croaks.
“Pack your shit,” he growls as he enters my room, commandeering the space like it’s his garage.
“What?”
“You’re going home. Congratulations, you earned yourself a flight home. A first-class ticket too because they had nothing else left for last-minute flights.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so angry.”
He hands me a local newspaper. “I swear to God I told myself I would be understanding when you told me everything about your relationship with Liam. But you’ve pushed me too far. I expect you to pack your suitcases. I’m waiting here to escort you to the airport.”
My eyes water as I read the title of the gossip column. Bandini Princess Falls from Grace, Escorted by None Other than Liam Zander, F1’s Refined Heartbreaker. My eyes roam over the page, catching phrases like hidden relationship and secret night visits.
My cheeks flame from embarrassment. I square my shoulders and look up into my dad’s stormy gaze. “This article is trash and you know it.”
“I don’t care. I warned you what would happen if I found another article like this. I can’t work with you causing drama, making dumb decisions because you’re hurt. You can go home, relax, and head back to school.”
I take a deep breath. “No.”
“Excuse me?” My dad takes a step backward, hitting me with flared nostrils and narrowed eyes.
My head pounds but I carry on. “I’m not going home.”
“Yes, you are. You never defied me before, so don’t start now when I’m pissed as fuck.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go home.”
“You will because I say so. I’ll handle the Liam problem, but I need you to get the hell out of here. Switch your online classes to the real deal and suck it up.” My dad grabs the tabloid and tosses it in the garbage can.
“I can’t.” Words leave my lips in a whisper.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I withdrew for the semester.” I shut my eyes, cowering from him in the one way I can.
“You what?” My dad speaks in an eerily calm voice, preferring to seethe and stew as opposed to scream.
I open my eyes to find my dad staring at me with anger evident in his gaze. “I’m not happy, and I can’t keep doing something to appease you, like leaving here when I need to finish this out. I love you so much, but I chose a major to make you happy, and it’s sucked the life out of me. It’s my fault for not being honest in the first place. I hate accounting. I detest the classes and the idea of doing that for the rest of my life. Literally, all of it. I did it because you gave up so much for me.” Tears break free, running down my face.
My dad looks gutted. “I’m so disappointed in you. I never thought you would lie to me, let alone for years. And to drop out and not tell me? That’s not the daughter I raised.”
More tears leak from my eyes, uncontrolled, as my dad stares at me in disbelief. “How can I tell you when I’m afraid of letting you down? You hold me to the same standards of those who work for you. I’m so damn afraid of failing or going against your plans that I’d rather hide the truth than tell you.”
“I do push you because I care. Because I don’t want you to end up lost or depending on me.”
“No. You don’t want me ending up like her.”
He sucks in a breath.
I hold his gaze, not backing down. For the first time in my life, I’m willing to go toe to toe with my dad, unafraid of his consequences. He can send me back home or to Timbuktu for all I care.
“Is that really so wrong? So what if I don’t want you to end up like some pothead escaping responsibilities for the rest of your life?” He throws his hands in the air.
“If I choose accounting, I wouldn’t be evading responsibilities. I’d be escaping my shot at happiness to fulfill yours.”
My dad’s eyes harden. I’ve never seen him like this, his rage simmering beneath the surface as his fists ball up at his sides. Without another word, he turns around, my hotel door slamming behind him.
The battle with my dad has drained my last bit of energy. I sit on the couch, put my face in my hands, and let out a sob.
Winning this battle feels insignificant when I already lost the war.
I never thought of myself as a crier. There was no reason to test how I look due to limited opportunities to screw up. But it turns out, when I cry, my face gets bloated and blotchy with not a dimple in sight. My green eyes become bloodshot, contrasting against the red like an ugly Christmas decoration.
So I, in all my puffy glory, knock my fist against my dad’s office door. For hours, I thought about our conversation, unable to sleep off my hangover while my dad was angry with me. Guilt made me restless and irritable all morning.
“Come in,” my dad’s muffled voice carries through the door.
I take a deep breath as I push open the glossy red door, preparing myself for his anger.
Instead, I get hit with my dad’s sorrowful eyes. His vulnerability tugs at me, wetness instantly pooling in my tear ducts.
Come on eye ducts, I thought we were in this together.
“I knew you’d show up eventually. I thought you wouldn’t last an hour before hounding me down about our fight. Took you long enough.” He sends me a wobbly smile.
Was I the type to make apology letters when my teenage hormones got out of hand and I said stupid shit I didn’t mean? Yes. But if anyone quotes me, I’ll deny it.
“Am I that predictable?” I stand near his desk, eliminating the gap between us.
“If you asked me that question yesterday, I would have said yes. But seeing as you threw me for a loop today, I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Well, I thought the season was getting old with Noah winning and you ruling F1 with Bandini, so I figured I’d shake things up.”
My dad fights a smile, replacing his sad eyes with warmth. “Safe to say, you did just that.”
“I didn’t mean to lie to you for all this time. I didn’t know how to break the news to you.”
“I’m not sure who I’m more disappointed in. You for lying about your dislike of school for years, or me for not noticing how much you hated it. You’re my daughter for fuck’s sake. I should be able to tell when you’re unhappy or distressed.”
“You’ve been busy. It’s understandable when you have Bandini and Noah and Santi to deal with.”
“Stop making excuses for me.” He stands.
“I can’t help it.” I have the biggest soft spot for my dad.
He pulls me in for a hug. “Why did you hold this back from me? You should have told me you didn’t like your major.”
“I didn’t know how to break it to you. You looked so happy when I talked about the program. I had no clue how to go about telling you I actually disliked it so much. But I’m done with pretending and hiding what I really want. I’m a grown woman, and you can’t force me to go home, just like you can’t force me to live a life I hate. That’s not living, it’s surviving. And you taught me to thrive and make the world kiss my sneakers.”
My dad holds me at arm’s length, looking at me like he’s not sure how I grew up in such a short amount of time. “I can’t say I regret giving you the tools to become a strong woman. I never expected them to be used against me.”
“I’m sorry for getting drunk last night and ending up on some gossip article looking like the walking dead. I shouldn’t have done that, but I felt so sad. My chest hurts all the time and I can’t look at Liam without wanting to cry.” My smile wavers.
“I’ll get back at the people who hurt you. I have a plan, but you have to trust me.”
“Get who back?” I don’t want him to hurt Liam, although a good scolding sounds nice.
“The bastards who made my daughter cry. Let me handle it.” He tugs me back into his chest.
I breathe in his woodsy scent. “I don’t want to have Liam end up dead or something. Can you be more specific?”
He chuckles before letting me go. I sink into one of his office chairs, my head pulsing and my fingers shaking. My hangover is getting to me, not pairing nicely with the raging emotions happening inside of me, along with my dad’s plan.
“He’s too good-looking to mess up. Plus, he loves my daughter, whether he admitted it to you or not.”
My chest tightens, but I carry on, choosing to ignore his observation. “Feel free to transfer my first-class ticket to two days from now. I’d love to ride in style back home after the World Championship.”
“You sure you’re past your expiration date for hospital returns?”
“Positive. I double-checked after I dropped out of school because I knew you’d kill me.”
“That’s my girl, planning her funeral. We’ll talk about your school decision at another time when you don’t look like you might throw up your liver.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I shut my eyes, ignoring the ache in my head and my chest. It’s a welcome feeling, reminding me how I’m still here, waiting to live through my last round of torture.
