Page 74 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I feel someone at my side before I see him.

Jackson’s presence is unmistakable. Solid, steady, radiating tension just under the surface.

I glance up, just enough to meet his eyes. I shake my head and glance over at Liam and Noah.

Jackson hesitates, jaw tigid, gaze locked on Brad.

Protective.

Dangerous.

“Go be with the boys,” I murmur under my breath. “Please.”

His brow furrows, but after a long second, he nods. I catch the flicker of frustration in his eyes before he turns back toward the story corner where Liam and Noah are still flipping through picture books, thankfully oblivious.

When Brad reaches me, he’s all smiles, all polished charm. “You blocked me on everything,” he says lightly, like we’re catching up over coffee. “So, I had to get creative. Imagine my surprise when I saw this event advertised on Open Pages’ socials.”

He gives me a once-over, like he’s sizing up a competitor. “Hope New Jersey was fun, by the way. Looked cozy.”

My stomach twists.

“I need you to leave,” I manage, keeping my voice even even though my hands are shaking. “This is a children’s event.”

Brad’s eyes flick toward the crowd, then back to me. “Relax. I’m not here to cause trouble.” His smile hardens. “Just wanted to check in on how our money’s being spent.”

My breath catches, this time for an entirely different reason.

Because that’s when it hits me.

Brad’s investment firm.

Donor tier: platinum.

Renewal window: next month.

A chill slides down my spine.

He knows it, too. The satisfaction in his face says it all. He’s here to remind me of what he still controls.

I realize, with a sickening jolt, just how much I stand to lose.

Brad adjusts his jacket sleeve like this is just another meeting, like we’re in a boardroom instead of surrounded by children in paper crowns and glitter glue.

“I won’t stay long,” he says, tone clipped. “Just thought I’d stop by while I was in the neighborhood.”

Liar.

He lives across town. He’s never once “stopped by” any Open Pages event.

His eyes cool, and his expression hardens. Cruel and cold in that familiar, polished way. The way he used to speak when he was laying someone off or spinning a public relations failure into a win.

“I’m disappointed, Ava.” He lowers his voice and leans slightly closer. “After everything I’ve done for you. For your nonprofit.”

I flinch before I can stop myself.

“You didn’t do it for me,” I say, throat dry. “You did it for the tax break and the press coverage.”

He lifts a shoulder, like that’s beside the point.