40. Kat Out of the Bag
EVA
Since I’m now the coordinator and the bride, I have exactly negative fifty-three minutes left to make this happen, which means it’s impossible. I’m in the ballroom, knee-deep in a sea of peonies and place cards, orchestrating tonight’s wedding reception décor. My phone buzzes with a stream of texts from the florist asking if we’re aiming for “whimsical wonderland” or “Victorian charm.” I type back, “Whimsical wonderland,” and hit send before realizing that isn’t even a thing.
“Make sure Aunt Myrna is as far from the speakers as possible,” I remind the hotel staffer, pointing at the seating chart that’s been meticulously crafted. “Her hearing aids will pick up alien signals if we don’t.”
Juggling the chaos, I spot her—Kat. And she’s wearing the hotel’s house cleaning outfit! Worse, she’s keeping her face shielded from me as she’s speaking to the manager.
What the actual hell?
We all knew there was something up with her! I’ve got to tail her before she pulls off whatever wedding wrecking stunt she’s plotting.
“Okay, breathe,” I whisper to myself as I follow her out of the room. I’ve handled worse. Nothing can top last night’s rehearsal dinner, right? Except maybe whatever Kat is planning.
With my heart tap-dancing in my chest, I trail her, hell-bent on catching this bitch who’s sabotaging all the hard work that’s gone into this wedding.
I whip out my phone, and with fingers flying over the screen, I punch “MARSHMALLOW” to West. Then I add a few extra “MARSHMALLOWS” to drive home the point.
Seconds tick by, each one dragging longer than the last. Then my phone buzzes. West’s reply is swift: “On my way. What’s up?”
“Tell Skye. Kat’s disguised as hotel staff,” I text back, watching her disappear around a corner.
My sneakers squeak on that damn marble floor as I follow her from a safe distance. She’s got no stealth—overly cautious head turns, unnecessary tiptoeing. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so damned worrying.
She slips through a door marked “Staff Only.”
Not that I didn’t know this already, but Kat’s up to no good. Maybe for this evening’s wedding, she’s upgrading her sabotaging game to have Paige—now me—attacked by pigeons. Or have me stand in a sinkhole!
God, if she causes me bodily injury, I will go after her. I update West on our location, and relief floods me as I see him striding toward me, Skye behind him.
They both shoot me wide-eyed looks, and we watch as Kat punches the down key on a staff elevator.
Shit!Skye nods toward the stairwell, and we follow her through the door and down the set of creepy cement stairs.
“What is she doing?” West whispers.
“The utilities are down here,” I say. “I bet she’s going to mess with the air conditioner!”
We step out of the stairwell just as the elevator dings and Kat steps out. Bingo.
We skulk after her, making our way down the dark corridor. The air grows cooler, damper, reminding us that we’re deep in the bowels of the hotel now.
With one bare-bulbed light above us, the trail leads us to a nondescript door at the end of a dim hallway. I can’t help but think it looks like the kind that requires a blood sacrifice to open. But no—Kat simply slips a key from her pocket and unlocks it with a click.
After she enters, the door begins its swing to a close, but one of West’s Vans wedges into the gap faster than a hiccup. “Nope,” he whispers.
“That’s my boy.” Skye’s all cool confidence, and I can tell this is making her entire month.
We tiptoe through the threshold, me bringing up the rear. My heart’s pounding like it’s on steroids, and I’m trying not to think about what we’re going to find. “What is Kat doing?”
“Underground fight club?” Skye offers.
“Shit, what if she’s holding Zach hostage?” I whisper.
“Then we rough her up.” Skye peers ahead.
“Shhh,” West scolds in a whisper. His shoulders tense, and his hands ball into fists, like he’s ready for anything.
The boiler room is the setting of every horror movie I’ve never had the guts to watch. Dim light flickers, casting long shadows that could belong to anyone—or anything. The air smells like rust and mold, and a faint murmuring echoes off the pipes. This place is a spider’s paradise, a definite nope.
In the dim light, Kat’s figure moves with purpose. I squint, trying to piece together her plan, but the puzzle’s missing too many pieces. Whatever it is, we’re about to blow the lid off it.
We inch forward, the murmurs growing louder, more insistent. My heart thunders against my ribs, part fear, part thrill.
“Found the light switch,” West whispers, and Skye gives him a nod.
“Do it,” I say, never more grateful to have these two as my friends. We may be an odd trio—computer dork, hippie, and control freak—but we get shit done.
West’s hand moves to the switch, and with a decisive flick, the room floods with light. We all freeze, our collective breath hitching.
“Surprise!” Skye announces, a smug satisfaction curling her lips.
“Party’s over,” West adds, his eyes narrow.
Kat spins around, caught mid-whatever-the-hell-she’s-doing. Her eyes practically pop out of her head at the sight of us.
“The Kat’s out of the bag,” I say, before my eyes can comprehend what they’re seeing. Once they do, I scream, “Oh my God, my eyes! My eyes!”
There, in the harsh fluorescence of the boiler room’s unforgiving lights, is my father. Naked, minus a crown and some fur loin cloth, which is a sight no daughter should ever have to see, chained to a pipe like fifty shades of wrong.
“Dad?” My voice ricochets off the dungeon-like walls. I’m already foreseeing years of therapy.
The ball gag lodged in his mouth muffles his response, but his eyes—they’re wide with pure panic.
Kat stands frozen, her hand still raised mid-swing, the leather whip looking like a prop.
“Not what I expected.” West’s voice cracks on that last word.
“I see nothing’s changed.” Skye’s gaze ping-pongs between my dad and Kat.
“Wait.” I can’t help it—my mouth states the obvious. “Is this some kind of kinky cosplay thing?”
“And there she is,” Skye deadpans.
“What about your heart, Dad?” I focus in on his face only, flinging a hand on my hip. “Did your cardiologist approve this?”
Dad doesn’t answer because of the ball in his mouth.
“Get the fuck out of here.” Kat’s voice is pure acid.
West jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ll just let ourselves out.”
“Yup. On it.” Skye’s palms are up.
“No, Kat, I’m not leaving. This could give Dad a heart attack.” I fold my arms. “You have to stop.”
Kat looks at my dad. “What is she talking about?” When she realizes he can’t answer her, she takes the ball out of his mouth.
The second it’s out, Dad yells, “For God’s sake, Eva, my heart’s fine! Now get the hell out!”
I gasp, folding my arms. “Paige said she overheard you talking to Anne about retiring because of your health. And that’s why you needed to rush me into the firm.”
“What? No! Anne is retiring for health reasons. And I was upset about that because she’s going to be extremely difficult to replace. She’s been with me for over twenty years. Now go.”
“Oh.” The word comes out like a strangled gasp. Questions balloon in my head: Why did Dad rush my contract? Why did he push me so hard to date Foster?
Skye and West start to leave, but I’m frozen in place. West grabs my arm and tugs at me as my insides shrivel. “Right. We’re going,” I say, but don’t move.
Skye shakes her head. “Look, Eva, I’ve been in this scenario with your dad before, but this is even pushing my boundaries.”
“Let’s give them their privacy,” West says a little too softly, looking like he’d rather face a firing squad than this for one more second.
“No one goes anywhere.” The fire in my belly stokes to an inferno as I lock eyes with my dad, feeling a wild sense of liberation bubbling up inside me. I scoff, taking another look at the chains, the leather, and the hypocrisy laid bare. “All these years, you’ve been dictating my life while you indulge in yours.”
Dad’s face goes purple as Kat ties his robe over his waist to cover him. “It can wait, Eva—”
“Nope,” I interrupt, already feeling the weight lift from my shoulders. “It can’t—and I have your undivided attention where you can’t storm away.”
West’s hand lands gently on my shoulder. “So, we’re doing this now?”
“I think so,” I say, still scarred from the view. But screw it—I want answers. I fish out my inhaler and take a puff before I say, “Yeah. We’re doing this now.”
I shoot Dad an incredulous look. “Look at you. Mr. Suit-and-Tie, shackled to a dirty pipe with Miss Whip-Your-Ass as you threaten to take away my inheritance if I don’t do exactly what you want when you want it.”
“Enough, Eva!” Dad’s face is reddening quicker than a lobster in a boil.
I cross my arms. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I offend your delicate sensibilities? Because last I checked, being chained up by Goldilocks isn’t exactly chapter material for finishing school.”
“Neil, get your daughter in line before I do,” Kat interjects, but I wave her off.
I plunge on. “You pushed me toward Foster and ordered I sign your contract by Sunday. If you aren’t retiring, why the hell did you do that?”
“Because it’s damn time you get serious about your life. Stop screwing around.”
“Screwing around—like with West. Because he doesn’t fit the mold.”
“That’s right.” Dad’s scowl is deep as he looks at West. “And why are you here? I thought I made it clear you weren’t to see my daughter anymore.”
I gasp and put a finger up to West, indicating that he shouldn’t respond to that. Then I look back at Dad and seethe, “Wow. How dare you?” I swallow hard, needing a moment to process that. Now it makes sense why West looked like he’d seen a ghost last night and sent me away.
I shake my head, my voice scratchy when I say, “I was ready to give up everything for you, Dad. Everything. Paige told me you need to retire for your health, and I was about to sign your offer. I was going to come back to New York and even give Foster another chance down the road so he and I could work together to take over the firm. All for you.”
Dad’s nose flares. “And you still should.”
“Why? Because it would please you?”
“Eva, I’m doing all this because I care about you. You know I love you,” he says, his voice even but firm.
“Love me?” I can’t help the bitterness that seeps into my tone. “Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it feels more like I’m the runner-up in some twisted family pageant.” I wait for him to dispel my doubts, to say the magic words that prove me wrong.
But he doesn’t. He just sits there, his face hardening into a mask of anger.
“Paige is your perfect daughter, right?” I press on, ignoring the storm clouds brewing in his eyes. “The golden daughter?”
His jaw clenches, the muscles ticking like a time bomb. “This isn’t about Paige,” he snaps, his voice a low growl.
My heart thuds against my ribs at the familiar piercing pain of being second best. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Enough, Eva.” His index finger is raised like he’s silencing an unruly client. But I’m not backing down, not this time.
“No.” The challenge hangs between us, sharp and dangerous. I’m tired of playing it safe, tired of being the good daughter, the responsible one. “Sometimes I wonder if you even see me.” My voice drops to a whisper, the fight draining out of me. I’m exposed, all my carefully constructed walls crumbling. And there he sits, chained up, still with all the power to rebuild them or blow them down completely. “Or if you’re just barking out orders to me as you swell with pride looking at her.”
My fingers ball into fists, the same ones that kneaded dough in my failed bakery, now clenching in a different kind of desperation. My chest heaves, and I swear my heart is skipping beats as if it’s forgotten its damn job. Then the words escape me between hiccups of breath. “You’ve never forgiven me for Mom, have you?”
His red face turns white, and his silence says it all.
Tears ambush me, streaking down my cheeks. My lips quiver uncontrollably, and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
Dad’s a statue, chiseled from years of heartache and silent judgment. His eyes, those twin pools of arctic dismissal, refuse to meet mine. In them, I search for a glint of compassion, a flicker of paternal warmth. Finally, he says, “No.”
That single word detonates in the silence, echoing off the walls.
No excuses. No elaboration. No freaking violin swell and a fatherly hug moment. Just “no.” Cold, hard, and served straight up.
Forgiveness? What was I thinking? This is Neil Steinberg we’re talking about. And yet, somewhere, somehow, the little girl in me still hoped.
“Right,” I manage, my voice a squeaky hinge. My hands drop to my sides, defeat wrapping around me like a lead apron. My voice is dead. “Then I’m done trying. I’m done fighting for something that’s never going to happen. I quit your firm. I don’t want to be a lawyer, I don’t want to be with Foster, and I sure as hell don’t want to move back to New York. I love it in Atlanta, and I love my friends who have become my family there. I choose happiness over hypocrisy, and you and I are done.” I take a step back. “Enjoy your chains,” I say, without a shred of remorse. “I’m breaking free from mine.” I look back and forth at West and Skye. “Now we can go.”
I dart out with the earth splitting beneath my feet, leaving the mighty Neil with a daughter-sized hole where his conscience should be.