Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
KEANE
Istraighten my tie as the receptionist waves me into the conference room.
Another new client, another story to untangle.
I’ve barely skimmed the intake notes—civil dispute, vague mention of “emotional distress,” the usual preamble I’ve heard a thousand times.
I remember glancing at his file before I left for camp.
The man stands, smooth as a cat, extending his hand.
“Vincent Marlowe,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
And my gut drops.
Because I know that name. I’ve heard that name, muttered late at night in Oren’s softer tones, cloaked in hesitation. An ex. One that still haunts him. I can tell by the way his voice shifts when he tries not to talk about it.
I shake Vince’s hand, my lawyer mask snapping into place even as my instincts flare like warning sirens. He’s polished. Tailored shirt, smug confidence, the whole “trust me” veneer. But I can already tell there’s venom coiled under his skin.
He launches into his story, spinning himself as the wronged party.
Legalese dressed up with just enough self-pity to pull at a jury’s sympathy.
I’ve seen men like him a hundred times. Charming.
Clever. Dangerous in the way they twist narratives until truth looks like a lie and lies sound like gospel.
And every word he speaks, every glint in his eye, screams one thing: this isn’t about damages. It’s about Oren.
I sit there, pen tapping against my pad, while my mind runs in circles. I’m supposed to be impartial, paid to do my job, not form opinions and take sides. But this isn’t just another case. This is Oren’s past clawing its way back into his present.
And God help me, the thought of that man circling Oren again makes my protective instincts surge hard enough to rattle me.
Vince thinks he’s found himself an ally in me. What he doesn’t know is that all he’s done is light a fire. Because if he wants to play games with Oren’s life, he’ll have to go through me.
And. I. Play. To. Win.
I wait until Vince’s imported car slides off down the block before I exhale. My shoulders ache from holding them stiff. Every instinct screams threat, even if he hides it under his tailored smirk and curated charm.
I thumb my phone. One ring. Two.
Then Oren’s voice spills through the line, bright and a little distracted, as if he’s scribbling something instead of paying attention. My body loosens instantly.
“Hey, kiddo. Just checking in. You all right?”
“I’m fine,” he says, too fast. Then, softer, “Working.”
I smile even though he can’t see it.
“Of course you are. How would you like a new rule tonight? Show and tell. I want you to pick something that makes you feel safe and tell me why. Doesn’t matter what it is. Deal?”
After a pause, his voice drops into that sweet, shy place.
“I can do that.”
“That’s my boy.”
The tension drains from my chest on a deep exhale.
“Also, ice cream date tomorrow if you can stay away from whipped coffee sugar comas. And Oren,” I add in my sternest Daddy tone, “I can see that guilty grin through the phone, so don’t bother lying.”
There’s a sputter, then a mock gasp. “You can’t prove anything.”
“Busted.”
His laugh is high and warm, like bells, and I soak it in, tucking it away somewhere secret. Vince might want to drag shadows into Oren’s world, but I’ll keep him here, in the light, where he belongs.
I shouldn’t have let him order the triple scoop, but the way his eyes lit up when he saw Superhero Swirl on the menu, I didn’t stand a chance. Now I’m stuck across from him at a picnic table outside the shop, pretending to listen while he licks his cone like it’s a full-time job.
“So my object was easy,” Oren says between swipes of his tongue over blue, then red, then neon-yellow ice cream. “It’s my weighted blanket. Not because it’s trendy. It just… makes me feel like someone’s holding me. Less lonely, I guess.”
I nod, but my attention snags on the way he tilts the cone, chasing a drip down the side with a quick dart of his tongue. Christ. Focus, Keane.
Oren squints at me, catching me staring. “You’re not listening.”
“I am,” I say, rougher than intended. I clear my throat. “Blanket. Makes you feel grounded. It’s good.”
“Mmhmm.” His grin is sticky-sweet. “You just like watching me eat this.”
He isn’t wrong.
“I like hearing you talk,” I counter, leaning forward on my elbows, “but I’ll admit, the cone’s… distracting.”
He giggles, and the sound makes me want to drag him into my lap right here, crowd of families be damned. Instead, I watch his cheeks go pink as he takes another slow lick, clearly milking it now.
“My turn,” I say before I lose my patience. “Safety object? My dad’s old pocketknife. Worn handle, blade dull as hell. I carried it everywhere as a kid. Still do. It reminds me there’s always something solid in my pocket, even when life’s a mess.”
Oren hums as though he’s filing the answer away, but then his tongue dips back into the swirl, lips closing around the top scoop. My knuckles tighten against the table.
“Careful,” I mutter, voice dropping. “You keep licking like that, we’re gonna skip straight to bedtime story territory.”
His blush deepens, but he doesn’t stop. Just flashes me a look that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
By the time Oren polishes off the last drippy swirl of his cone, his fingers are tacky and there’s a smear of blue near the corner of his mouth. I hand him a napkin as we head back to the car, but he only makes a halfhearted swipe before tossing it into the trash.
When we stop at the curb outside his place, he lingers with the door half open, grinning at me as if he’s up to something.
“What?” I ask.
Instead of answering, he leans in and presses his lips to mine. Sweet, cold, a little messy—like cotton candy melted on my tongue. He tastes of sugar and trouble, and when he pulls back, my mouth’s sticky too.
“Now we match,” he whispers, smug.
I laugh, shaking my head as I reach up to brush his cheek. “Go inside, sweetheart. Start your wind-down before bed.”
He nods, still glowing, still licking the corner of his lip as if he’s replaying it.
“I’ll call at bedtime.”
“Okay,” he says, almost bouncing as he slips out of the car.
One last wave, one last flash of his silly socks, and then he’s gone, leaving me with sugar on my mouth and a thrum in my chest that feels an awful lot like falling.
I get home, drop my keys in the dish by the door, and hang my jacket on the hook. It looks like the end of any other day, but my head isn’t here—it’s stuck replaying Vince’s smirk across my desk, the way his words curled around Oren’s name like barbed wire.
I loosen my tie, roll up my sleeves, and head into the kitchen. Dinner is nothing fancy—chicken and vegetables tossed in a skillet. I’m on autopilot, chopping, stirring, pouring myself a glass of water. It’s fuel, nothing more.
While I eat, my laptop waits on the counter.
Eventually I give in, sliding the plate aside and opening files I shouldn’t be digging through this late at night.
Background checks. Public records. Anything I can find on Vincent Marlowe that might give me leverage.
The man’s smart, polished—but too polished.
Men like that always have cracks in the marble.
I tell myself I’m doing this because I want to be ready for him, for whatever stunt he tries to pull next. But if I’m honest, I’m also doing it because the thought of him circling Oren makes my stomach knot.
I close the laptop after an hour, promising myself I’ll pick it back up tomorrow. The clock says it’s late, but my body feels restless. I shower, shave, and lay out my clothes for work. Every part of my routine is sharp-edged and efficient, but underneath is a steady rattle of distraction.
When I finally stretch out on my bed, the room quiet and dim, my hand brushes against the drawer of my nightstand.
Inside, tucked in a plastic bag, are Oren’s socks from camp and a little red piece of him I haven’t washed.
It’s ridiculous, sentimental, but it steadies me.
Makes the tension drain from my shoulders.
I check the time. Not long until his bedtime. Not long until I hear that soft sweet voice again. Vince might have his claws, but I’ve got something stronger—trust. And I’ll protect it with everything I’ve got.
I call at the same time I always do, settling back against the headboard with the lamp turned low. His voice comes through sleepy but eager.
“Hi, Daddy.”
That one word pulls the whole day off me like shedding armor. I smile, though he can’t see it.
“Hi, baby. Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yes.” There’s a pause followed by soft rustling. “I’m already in bed. Socks too.”
“Good boy.” My chest warms. “Want your story?”
“Yes, please.”
I think for a second, then let the first idea spill out.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy who loved ice cream. His Daddy took him out for the biggest cone they had—three scoops stacked so high they nearly toppled.”
Oren giggles softly, and I imagine him pulling his blanket up under his chin.
“What flavor?”
“Superhero Swirl.”
He hums, clearly pleased, then interrupts, “Make it… Daddy’s favorite flavor on the bottom. That way he can taste it when he… um… licks around the edge.” His voice drops shy, as if he isn’t sure if he should have said that.
My pulse jumps, but I keep my voice calm.
“Mmm. Smart boy. The Daddy liked that, because he got to share the taste with his boy.”
There’s an audible breath on the other end of the line. “What did it taste like?”
I picture him biting his lip, waiting for my answer.
“Sweet,” I murmur. “Sticky. Rich chocolate. And the Daddy couldn’t take his eyes off the way his boy’s tongue slid along the cone. So messy, but so eager.”
Oren’s breathing picks up. He whispers, “The boy let Daddy have a bite. Right from his cone. They touched tongues for just a second.”
My free hand tightens in the sheets. He’s guiding, pushing at the edges of his own bravery, and I let him.
“And Daddy told him he was the sweetest treat he’d ever had.”
Silence falls for a beat, heavy with meaning. Then Oren whispers, so faint I almost miss it, “That’s the best story.”
I smile into the phone, my voice low. “We can keep adding to it. Little by little. As much as you want, baby.”
Another rustle, then a yawn. He’s half-asleep now, but I know he’s still smiling.
“Goodnight, Daddy.”
“Goodnight, my sweet boy.”
I end the call, staring at the ceiling, my heart pounding. He has no idea how much he undoes me with a few whispered words.