Page 50 of Cinderella and the Daddy

I know he’s talking about the Tremaine family.

“Long story.”

“Tell me.”

I sigh, knowing I’m not getting laid. "My mom got sick when I was nine."

The words taste like ash. I've never told anyone the whole truth—not even Charles knows everything. But standing here in Luka's garage, my hands still stained with grease, his scars bare under my fingers, it feels like the only currency I have to trade. Truth for truth.

"Sick?"

"Breast cancer." I trace another scar on his ribs, needing something to do with my hands. "She was a single mom. My dad split when she found out she was pregnant. It was always just her and me against the world."

I pause, remembering. The way she'd sing while fixing her beat-up Camaro. How she'd let me hand her tools, teaching me that women could fix anything—cars, problems, broken hearts.

"She lived hard. Loved harder." My voice cracks. "She was clean most of the time, but not always. The first time I went into foster care, I was three. Some neighbor reported her when she went on a bender. But she fought to get me back. Ninety days of meetings, piss tests, and groveling to social workers. When she picked me up, she swore it would never happen again."

I don't tell him how I believed her. How a three-year-old's faith in her mother could move mountains. How that faith slowly eroded with each relapse, each promise broken, until all that was left was love without trust—the most painful combination imaginable.

And then when she got sick, she struggled to take care of me. I told no one, but the school called it in. For two years, I was in and out of foster care. She knew Charles. I think they probably had a thing back in the day. She gave me to him sometimes. Butthen she died, and I was in foster care for good. It didn’t work well.”

“What do you mean?”

I was not about to get into that trauma.

“It just didn’t work. At twelve, Charles finally did whatever was necessary to be my foster. He never adopted me. At one point, the state pulled me from his care. I was sixteen.”

I pause, because that whole experience was devastating.

Luka takes my hand. The touch is all the encouragement I need to go on.

“After another bad foster home, I went through the process of getting emancipated. I did. Charles gave me a job in the shop. And I just never left.”

His thumb brushes across the pulse point at my wrist. He doesn’t need to say anything. It’s a sad story.Boohoo.

Everyone has one.

I don’t want his sympathy. I’m not twelve. I’m not that scared, little girl left all alone in the world.

"Boss?" The voice cuts through the moment of silence.

One of his guards—Roman, I think—stands in the garage doorway.

Luka doesn't step away from me, doesn't try to create distance or pretend nothing was happening. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on mine as he responds to his subordinate.

"What is it?"

"New intel came in. You're gonna want to see this."

"Five minutes."

It's a dismissal, clear and final, but Roman doesn't move immediately. His gaze flickers between us, taking in our proximity and the way Luka's hand is still wrapped around my wrist. Then he nods once and disappears back into the house.

"Go," I tell Luka, pulling my hand free. "This is important."

"Cindy—"

"Go. I'll be here when you get back."