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He whips around, and I almost collide with his broad chest.
His eyes lock onto mine, dark and intense. “I’ve loved you since that first night in college. When you stumbled into my kitchen at 3 AM, looking for something to eat.”
“I was drunk.”
“You were beautiful.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “And brave. And so determined to prove you didn’t need anyone. But you stayed and ate those terrible pancakes I made.”
“They weren’t terrible. They were the first thing I kept down in weeks.”
“I know.” His forehead touches mine. “That’s when I knew I was fucked. I wanted to feed you forever, watch you eat without fear, see you smile like that again.”
Brandon watching me, genuinely caring if I enjoyed his food, always made me feel… safe.
“You never pushed.” My fingers twist into his shirt, needing him. “Even when you knew about the puking. You just… kept cooking.”
“Because food should be about love, not control.” He presses a firm kiss to my temple like he’s grounding himself in me. “My mom taught me that.”
I glance at the papers on his desk. “What do we do with these?”
“Whatever you want.” He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. “They’re yours. Your choice.”
Your choice. Two simple words that carry the weight of twenty-one years of secrets. Months ago, I would have obsessed over every detail, trying to control the narrative. But now, with Brandon’s steady presence beside me, I realize it would only steal more time from me than it already has.
“I know.” I do. “But first, you promised me strawberry pancakes.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Always thinking with your stomach now, huh, cupcake?”
“I love you, too.”
He tugs me closer, wrapping his arms around me, and I bury my face in his chest, breathing him in. He smells like home. Like safety. Like everything I’ve ever wanted and been too afraid to reach for.
Honestly? He’s my pancake. The only thing I’ve ever let myself keep.
FORTY-TWO
NAOMI
I’ve spent my whole life trying to please the man at the end of this hallway. The little girl in me still quakes at the thought of disappointing him.
But I’m not her anymore.
Just me, finally comfortable in my own skin and clothes.
I square my shoulders and march down the plush carpet like I’m walking to the gallows. The evidence folder is slick with sweat from my palms, but I don’t let go. Can’t let go. Not yet.
Dad’s assistant doesn’t even look up as I pass. “Go right in, Ms. Smith. He’s waiting.”
Ms. Smith. The title grates like nails on a chalkboard. I’m not just David Smith’s daughter. Not anymore.
The door to his office looms like the gates of hell. Or maybe purgatory. Some in-between place where sins are laid bare and judgment is passed. That familiar scent of leather and power reaches me the second I step inside. Did they pump this smell through the vents? Eau de Capitalist Asshole?
Dad.
Sitting behind his massive mahogany desk like a king on his throne, the one that used to make me feel small. Now it just looks like overcompensation.
He looks up, face carefully blank. “Naomi. Please, sit.”
I don’t. “This won’t take long.”