Inescapable

Chapter 6

The rest of the day was uneventful. TDH returned once more with her dinner—at about seven that evening—and said not one word to her. Luna remained conspicuous in her absence. And, despite being able to message family and friends, Iris felt crushingly alone.

After her reluctant host dropped the tray and escaped with ego-bruising swiftness, Iris picked at the meal of lemon and garlic butter basted fish fillets, with baked baby potatoes and a crunchy, fresh salad. Iris couldn’t quite identify the light white-fleshed fish, but the meal was yet another winner from her warden. The fish was perfectly cooked and delicately seasoned but Iris lacked the appetite to do it justice.

She had messaged and tried calling Hunter Quinn several more times—no luck. She knew it was probably futile, he likely was on that bizarre-sounding silent retreat, but attempting to contact him made Iris feel somewhat in control. And maybe she was crazy for trying, but it was better than doing nothing at all.

She had also tried to do some research on the accident that had been the catalyst for Trystan fleeing the public eye, but there was nothing new to be found. A single-car accident, two victims, one fatality. The driver—Trish Nesbitt—had died, but was found to have had no narcotics or alcohol in her system. The only other person involved in the accident had remained tight-lipped about it and had eventually fallen off the face of the earth.

All of which she’d known before coming here, and all of which told her precisely nothing. Iris crawled into bed feeling unsettled, unhappy, and uncertain. This felt like a bigger story than she’d anticipated, like more responsibility than she knew what to do with. It felt grave, weighty, and like she could do serious damage if she fucked it up in any way.

As she lay in bed that night, she acknowledged to herself that she didn’t feel that curl of excitement her biological father had often described when he was working on a big story. She didn’t have that pressing need to find out everything there was to know about said story, every minute detail that could possibly lead to the biggest scoop of her life.

She didn’t want to know. She wanted to leave it alone, undiscovered, buried with Trish Nesbitt and unspoken by Trystan Abbott. It felt like the worst kind of prying, and she didn’t feel any driving instinct to uncover it.

This felt a long way off from the fun puff piece she’d imagined it would be. This was someone’s life. Someone’s death. And Iris didn’t think she had any right to trample all over Trish Nesbitt’s grave.

“Worst time ever to discover that maybe this isn’t what you want to do with your life, Iris, you dolt,” she groaned into the darkness. The rain had abated somewhat, but the wind was still howling, whistling through the trees and the eaves of the big house.

She covered her face with her hands and prayed for sleep, but between the eerie whistling wind, the feeling of being helpless and trapped, and the clamoring thoughts in her brain, that blessed oblivion was a long way off.

When Trystan broughther breakfast the following morning, Iris remained seated on the sofa, miserably wrapped around the hot-water bottle she’d discovered in the bedroom closet.

Every muscle in her body hurt and her back was in spasm. She shifted to press the bag into the small of her back, muffling a groan as she watched him enter the room, without sparing her a glance.

Trystan. Somewhere between yesterday and this morning Iris had stopped thinking of him as TDH or by his full name. She wasn’t sure how it had happened, or why, but she was uncomfortable with the fact that she now thought of him as just Trystan. It made him seem more human, approachable… which meant she had to tread carefully because she knew he’d hate it if he comprehended where her thoughts had roamed.

Trystan.

Grumpy, hot, reticent, aloof Trystan.

He remained silent as he lowered the tray to the table and turned to leave, not even glancing at her before hot-footing it back to the door. Once there, he hesitated. His jaw flexed beneath that now-short black beard. Iris was inspecting the scar—but it was hard to see it clearly with the beard in the way—and fretting about the type of injury that would have caused it when he turned his head and caught her staring. He pinned her with an almost resentful glower.

She quickly averted her gaze and he actually growled in response to her evasion. The low, animalistic sound had her eyes snapping back up to his and there was a smoldering satisfaction in his stare when she met his eyes this time.

What the hell was going on with him this morning?

The silence stretched between them for an endless moment until, “You’re not going to ask after Luna?”

“Why?” Iris asked, alarmed. “Is she hurt?”

“She’s fine.”

Iris stared at him in confusion, not sure what to say.

“You’re always asking if she can stay with you.”

Always, as if they already had some cozy little routine in place just two days into her imprisonment.

“What would be the point?” She fought—unsuccessfully—to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “You’d just say no.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, his eyes raking over her crumpled form.

“Absolutely nothing. All sunshine and roses here,” she said with a twist of her lips. She started to make a dismissive gesture with her arm, but aborted the movement halfway through. She grimaced and tucked the aching appendage close to her torso.

“You’re in pain.” He was crouched in front of her within seconds. How the hell did he move so fast? It wasn’t normal. “How bad?”

“Pretty bad,” she admitted in a miserable little voice.

“Where does it hurt the most?” His voice was neutral, unemotional but his gaze remained pinned to hers, following her eyes when she tried to evade that uncomfortable, probing molten silver stare.

“My back,” she admitted with a shuddering sigh, her eyes burning as she fought to hold back her tears.

“Right. Okay.” He dropped his hands on the sofa on either side of her hips and seemed to think for a moment before he nodded decisively. Just a fast, jerky up-down motion of his head.

“Do you have anything that can double as a swimsuit?”

“What?” His question baffled her and she stared at him like he’d grown an extra head. Was he crazy? A swimsuit? Why would she need a swimsuit? The rain had stopped during the night, but it was still gray and cold and windy out there.

“Humor me, okay?”

“I do have something,” she conceded reluctantly, thinking of the ridiculous bikini she’d packed. “Why?”

“There’s a hot tub in the natatorium.”

“The natatorium?”

“A room containing an indoor swimming pool.”

She glared at him, offended that he’d felt the need to explain.

“I know what a natatorium is, I was just surprised to learn that you had one.”

“Why? You see what it’s like in winter. And it’s great to be able get a few laps in every day, regardless of the weather. I think an indoor swimming pool is essential in a place like this.”

“Hmm… Your idea of essential and mine differ greatly.” She knew she sounded tart and judgy, but seriously, an indoor pool? Nobody truly needed an indoor pool. Still, that hot tub he’d mentioned sounded like paradise round about now, so maybe she should get off her high horse and just be grateful he had a frikking natatorium tucked away in his holiday hideaway.

He didn’t respond to her comment, merely continued to stare at her and they both simultaneously became aware of the fact that one of his long thumbs was absently stroking her thigh through the stretchy fabric of her sweatpants. Her mouth dropped open and his eyes widened as he jerked his hand away as if he’d been scalded.

Meanwhile, Iris felt as if she had been scalded. She could still feel the firm stroke of that thumb against her flesh, the heat from his hand seared into her skin like a brand.

He leaped to his feet and shoved his hands into his sweatpants pockets, lowering his head to glare down at her.

“Eat your breakfast and then get changed. I’ll return for you in half an hour.”

He wasas good as his word. Back in exactly thirty minutes, while Iris sat waiting—after having painfully struggled into the bright pink and white string bikini in record-breaking time—on the sofa. She felt outrageously exposed, despite the warm, thick bathrobe she wore over the scandalously tiny bikini.

She was just thinking that maybe a pair of boy shorts and a black bra would be a little more conservative when he stepped back into the room.

“You ready?” he asked, eyeing her modestly covered, huddled form skeptically. She nodded wordlessly, feeling tongue-tied, nervous, and ridiculous.

A slight movement behind him—in the open door—caught her eye, and her face lit up at the sight of Luna.

“Luna, I’m so happy to see you!” The dog ambled over to her and stoically accepted Iris’s enthusiastic hug.

Shockingly, Trystan allowed the interaction without calling Luna away. He remained standing by the door, waiting with every appearance of patience.

Because of that seeming patience, Iris didn’t feel the perverse need to make him wait any longer and shakily pushed to her feet. To her surprise he moved toward her, covering the distance in a few short strides, until he was hovering right beside her, hands slightly outstretched as if to catch her if she fell.

She eyed those big, capable hands in horror and amusement, not at all sure what his intentions were right now.

“Do you need help?” The tight awkwardness in his voice told her that he wasn’t certain of his next move either.

“I think I’m okay to walk,” she said, taking one wobbly step before he made an impatient grunting sound and closed his hand around her elbow in support.

This time she didn’t even bother calling him out on the grabbiness because she was actually grateful for the aid. And truthfully, she didn’t really mind it, not even when she’d mentioned it to him before. She’d just felt the need to establish boundaries even though she hadn’t felt truly threatened by his bossy touch.

She allowed him to steer her toward the door, even though she hardly needed direction out of the room. Her phone beeped as they slowly made their way to the door and she pulled it out of her pocket with her free hand to check the incoming message.

He stopped walking abruptly and she lifted her head in confusion, only to find him glaring down at the phone in her hand.

“Leave that behind.”

“What? My phone? But…”

“No recording devices allowed in the rest of the house.”

Was he joking? One look at his grim face told her what a ridiculous question that was. Despite evidence she’d seen to the contrary in the past, Trystan Abbott did not seem to possess much in the way of a sense of humor. Those interviews of an approachable and laughing Trystan Abbott had to have been staged.

“Recording device? It’s my phone.”

“It’s a camera. And an audio recorder. It stays in the room.”

“You’re paranoid,” she protested. As indictments went it was pretty weak, but it was all she could come up with right now in the face of this outrageousness.

“I don’t think so. I’m cautious around someone who has invaded my privacy and tried to feed me a pack of lies. You can use your phone in your own room…”

“My prison cell, you mean? And don’t you dare call me a liar! I haven’t lied to you, not once. I told you I have messages and texts from Mr. Quinn but you’re being a dick about even looking at them. Here, I’ll show you…”

She swiped at her phone, frantically looking for even one of those messages to shove into his face, but he calmly took the phone from her and held it behind his back.

“Hey, give that back!” she tried to grab it, but he lifted it above his head, flouting her attempts to take the device back from him.

She stopped reaching for her phone. It would be impossible to get it from him and she was merely making an idiot of herself in the process.

She’d never truly hated anyone in her life before, not even the people who had made her life a living hell back in school, but Iris was definitely leaning toward that emotion with this man.

“When you’re alone,” he continued doggedly, as if her outraged interruption hadn’t even happened, which infuriated Iris even more. He disregarded the daggers flying at him from her eyes. “Call your family, laugh at cat memes, shop for more horrendous clothes… do whatever the fuck you want on that thing. But your phone doesn’t leave this room. If it ever manages to find its way out, I’m confiscating it. And if I see anything on social media about where you are, or about me, I’m destroying it and moving your prison cell to the shed. We clear?”

Great. Just like that he’d gone back to being TDH. Iris was grateful for that—she preferred TDH to Trystan. At least with TDH, what you saw was what you got.

But Trystan was dangerous. He had too much power and if he put his mind to it, he could destroy Iris and her family. And while she didn’t care about her nonexistent professional reputation, she very much cared about her family and the business her parents had worked so hard to make a success of. If she got on the wrong side of this man, he could tear that all apart without even blinking.

He handed her phone back and Iris’s lips tightened as she pointedly placed it on the small dining table on their way out of the door. She kept her focus on Luna, ignoring him as he led her from the room.

She hated that his grip was gentle on her arm, hated that he walked slowly out of consideration for the pain she was in. She hated the contradiction and wished he’d remain consistent in his arseholery. Because when he was considerate, it made him feel approachable, made her think they could talk, that she could be herself and joke and laugh with him.

Then, when he turned around and shut her down like she was less than human, it stung. It even hurt. And it shouldn’t. Not when he meant nothing to her.

“Oh,”Iris’s gasp was soft, even reverent, as she took in the high vaulted glass ceilings of the natatorium with its gorgeous, golden exposed beams. The temperature-controlled room reminded her of a greenhouse, with three glass walls to complement the glass ceiling. They had a view of the forest and the lake from this room and the stonework was the color of beach sand. The pool was half-Olympic-sized at the very least. There was a round spa sunk into its far side. Wooden benches and huge, leafy plants added ambiance and comfort to the space, and there was a glass-fronted cedar-wood sauna on this side of the room.

“This is amazing,” she whispered, her eyes huge as she looked around. She loved how lush and green it looked outside, despite the sullen gray clouds above.

“C’mon,” he urged, leading her toward the opposite end of the massive dark blue pool. Before she knew it, she was standing at the side of the spa—which was a few shades darker than the pool—and she could see the mosaics highlighting the shelved seating that ran all-round the tub. “Climb in, I’ll switch on the jets.”

“I really appreciate this,” she told him earnestly, ditching the robe without thinking, and then immediately regretting her rashness when he froze halfway through turning away.

Froze… and stared.

“That’s very—uh—bright,” he said, his words stumbling into one another like drunken sailors. He blinked at the two tiny pink and white triangles cupping her small boobs, before dropping his eyes to her gently rounded stomach, which—she regretted—had always had a bit of sag to it no matter how many crunches and sit-ups she did. She’d eventually given up on the dream of having an ab-tastic toned and taut tummy. She was happy enough with her curves to not stress the shit she couldn’t change without some kind of surgical intervention.

His wandering eyes slid away from her stomach—and dropped to her generous hips, then fell to the triangle at her crotch before jerking back up to her face.

“This is what you brought for swimming? In the Cape? In winter?” He finally managed to ask in hoarse incredulity, and Iris was rebelliously happy that she’d resisted the urge to fold her arms over her small boobs with their hard nipples. For a few seconds there, she’d mistakenly believed he was gawking at her body, when in fact, he’d been horrified by her choice of bathing apparel.

Please. As if the likes of Trystan Abbott would ever be gawking at someone the caliber of ordinary, curvy Iris Hughes.

She immediately berated herself for the appalling lack of self-esteem that thought had betrayed. She’d worked very hard on her body positivity, and on loving herself and the way she looked. She’d be damned if she’d let one scathing put-down from a man with unrealistic beauty standards undo years of hard work.

She frowned as she stared at him, with his stupid beard and his big body and his beautiful eyes and face, and acknowledged that—those beauty standards were unrealistic for 99% of humankind. Trystan Abbott, however, could date any of those otherworldly goddess-like creatures if he wanted. Well, he had dated very many of them. A gorgeous array of supermodels, actresses, athletes, even a frikking princess—the man’s only real criteria seemed to be that his sexual partners be as beautiful as he.

“What’s going through that complicated, crazy brain of yours right now?” he asked, and her eyes widened at his almost affectionate question.

“I was thinking that I’m happy I brought this bathing suit. No matter how unsuitable it may seem to you. Since it’s coming in handy right now.” She tilted her head defiantly and stepped into the blissfully warm water, and when she sat down she was submerged up to her neck. Her long sigh was filled with sheer contentment.

He watched her with an odd, indecipherable expression on his face before he turned to stride to a panel in the wall next to the sauna.

Iris made a delighted sound when the water bubbled to life, the jets exactly what she needed for her sore muscles.

She was shocked and a little horrified when Trystan—yes, he was back to Trystan again—joined her at the hot tub and shucked out of his clothes to reveal black board shorts beneath his sweatpants.

Iris tried not to gawk at the veritable feast of male perfection on display in front of her right now. Tight butt with long, strong, muscular legs and thighs combined with washboard abs, broad shoulders, chest and back. He had beautifully veined forearms and bulging biceps and triceps. There was zero fat on him. Everything was muscle, bone, and sinew.

She’d seen him wearing even less in movies, but nothing could prepare any human being for the reality of seeing Trystan Abbott in the flesh, so to speak. It was like seeing pictures of the painted ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in books and on the Internet all your life, and then finally witnessing the real deal with your own eyes. There was just no comparison.

Iris had not expected him to join her, but he sank into the water with his own version of a blissed-out sigh—a harsh, broken groan—and sat down across from her. He was far enough away for them to not even accidentally brush against each other, but it still felt too close. And too intimate. Way, way, way too intimate.

She studied him carefully, not sure what—if anything—to say. His head was tilted back and his eyes were shut, and she was happy to have a few moments of relative privacy to have a minor freak-out about her current bizarre reality.

She was in a hot tub with TRYSTAN ABBOTT!How was this her life right now?

All too soon, he lifted his head and opened his eyes, pinning her to the spot with his interrogative gaze. He’d caught her staring, but didn’t seem to think anything of it. And Iris recognized that this was a man who was probably used to being gawked at on a daily basis. She was just being like everyone else on the planet.

The only people who wouldn’t stare were those he worked with and those with whom he was intimately acquainted. Family, friends, familiars… Iris wasn’t even an acquaintance. She didn’t matter to him. And she never would.

“Are those aggressively pink splotches meant to be lips?” His question was confusing and unexpected, and she wasn’t sure what the hell he meant.

“What?”

“On your bikini?”

Why was he asking about her bikini? In fact, why was he thinking about it at all?

“They’re lipstick kisses.”

“Right.”

“They’re cute.”

“Right. Lipstick kisses all over your tits and ass. Cute. Got it.”

She gritted her teeth—she really had to stop doing that—and refrained from asking him what that was supposed to mean.

Because his voice had been dripping with… something. Disdain? Sarcasm? Mockery? Whatever it was, it hadn’t been anything positive.

“Thank you,” she said instead, surprising and confusing him, if his expression was anything to go by.

“For what?”

“This,” she said, idly waving her hand through the water. “It’s heavenly.”

He made a noncommittal grunting sound.

“So, I can’t ask you anything because you’d lose your shit and accuse me of spying or some other unreasonable thing… but, I mean, you could ask me something. A few questions to ease your mind about who I am.”

“I have absolutely no interest in finding out anything more than I already know about you.”

“Oh.”

She sank into wounded silence, while berating herself for allowing this man, who meant nothing to her, to once again hurt her dumb, sensitive feelings.

The awkward silence remained unbroken for a good few minutes before the man across from her sighed softly.

“Do you have a dog of your own at home to console you after your inevitable breakup with Luna?”

The unexpected question was silly and whimsical but Iris recognized—and appreciated—it for the attempted olive branch that it was.

“No. I’ve never had a dog. I’ve always wanted one but my dad is allergic to animal dander. So, no pets at all.”

“Your dad? Stanford Carter?”

“How do you know my father’s name?” she asked, stunned. They didn’t share a last name—obviously—and the only people who really knew of her familial relationship with the notorious Stanford Carter were her family, and Evan.

“One phone call to my security team, some half-assed Internet searches, and I knew everything I needed to know about you.”

“Everything except the fact that your manager arranged for me to be here.”

He ignored that. “Your father was a first-class bastard. He destroyed marriages, careers, lives without blinking. All for the almighty buck. And you wonder why the fuck I would never consent to an interview with you? Even if Quinny had for some fucked-up, brain fart of a reason arranged this, I would never have agreed to it. Not with your sleazy pedigree.”

“My father was a great man… he was a wonderful journalist”—TDH scoffed at the word—“who enriched lives and kept the masses informed.”

“He shoveled through shit to find the most sordid details about people’s lives and laid them bare for public consumption. A real prince. Is that why you don’t use his last name? Because you know nobody with any self-respect would ever agree to be interviewed by someone with such close ties to that bottom-feeding piece of filth?”

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to this unprovoked defamation of both my character, and my father’s,” Iris said, her voice vibrating with indignation and humiliation. In truth, she was more affronted by his assassination of her character than she was by anything he’d said about her biological father.

Stanford Carter hadn’t been a saint—he’d been ruthless in his pursuit of a story. To the exclusion of all else. He’d often neglected to show up for weekends, or visits, with Iris when he was on the trail of some scandalous story or the other. And Iris could understand why Trystan would feel that way about him. In fact, when Iris had seen those truly awful, invasive images of Trish Nesbitt and Trystan after their accident, it had struck her as something her father would have done. And that certainty had revolted her.

Despite her defense of him—which had been a knee-jerk reaction to Trystan’s contempt—Iris had never truly aspired to emulate the man who’d fathered her by following exactly in his footsteps. She was seeking legitimacy, and if she did follow this path she wanted to be perceived as a journalist with ethics and integrity.

She pushed to her feet, but her heel skidded on the slick surface of the spa bottom and she lost her balance.

He went from sitting to standing in a second, his strong arms closing around her from behind before she even registered how close she’d come to falling and possibly striking her head on the side of the small heated pool.

His lightning-fast reflexes saved her and—while her brain played catch-up with what could have happened—her body reacted to all that sexy, hot, naked flesh pressed up against her back.

Her breath stuttered in her chest, and her already hard nipples contracted even more, while heat and moisture pooled between her legs. She instinctively clenched her thighs and arched closer to his hard heat.

But when her common sense finally caught up with her shameless body, a mere second later, she gasped in humiliation and attempted to extract herself from his tight hold. Hoping against hope he hadn’t noticed her embarrassing reaction to his nearness.

He didn’t let her go, though. His strong arms remained clamped around her upper body, pinning her own arms to her side, his chest plastered against her back, his groin pushed up against the small of her back.

He was panting in her ear, harsh, gasping breaths, as if he’d overexerted himself, which made no sense, since he’d gone completely still after the short, rapid burst of movement to catch her.

“Let go of me,” she gritted out from between clenched teeth, but he remained silent while his hoarse breathing finally leveled out, becoming more even and quieter.

He relaxed his hold, releasing her arms, one large, capable hand drifting down to spread over her torso, while the other dropped to her waist.

“You okay?” he asked, his breath fluttering against the curls at her temple.

“I will be when you let me go.” Her voice was husky, unconvincing, and she barely suppressed a moan when the hand at her torso stroked soothing circles over her sensitive flesh.

He was still pressed intimately close to her, so it was impossible to miss the stirring against the small of her back. Was he… getting hard?

Before she could figure it out, he released his grip and stepped away from her. She turned quickly, but he was already seated, and watching her with that focused, intent expression back on his face.

“Sit down.”

Folding her arms defensively over her stupidly achy nipples, Iris refused to comply and glared down at him with a defiant tilt of her jaw.

“No. I’m ready to go back to my prison cell.”

God, she couldn’t think of anything she wanted less, but he’d touched a nerve. She was such a confused mess, following in the footsteps of a father she really did not respect at all, wanting to show him up, and prove to the world that she was a better person than he’d been. It was fucked up… she was fucked up. Out here trapped in the middle of nowhere, in pursuit of a dream she didn’t believe in. And did not want.

She needed space to sort through her cluttered brain, and she needed to be out of Trystan Abbott’s disturbing company. She couldn’t think when he was around and actively antagonizing her.

His lips twitched and his eyes—still fixed on her face—flickered.

“I’ve read some of your work,” he said, ignoring her demand. “What little there is of it.”

His words surprised her as she had no body of work readily available on the Internet. In fact, she had nothing out there for public consumption that she could think of off the top of her head and wasn’t sure to what he was referring.

“What work?”

“There’s the poetry you wrote for your university paper.”

“Oh my God.” She sank back onto the seat and covered her face with her hands. She couldn’t believe that any of those abysmal poems were actually available online. They were truly awful and dripping with teenaged angst and despair. “I thought they’d all been taken down.”

“The Internet is forever, Miss Hughes.” It was the first time he’d actually said her name. She’d honestly believed he’d forgotten it until he’d dropped those truth bombs about her father.

“So, it seems.”

“For a budding journalist, you have surprisingly little content online, not a smart move. No blogs, vlogs, TikTok, Instagram. Other people your age are gagging to reveal their every shallow opinion to the world. Someone with your… ambitions should be even keener to share every puerile thought.”

This was better—it felt like familiar territory. Iris relaxed marginally, slumping against the wall of the spa and allowing herself to enjoy the soothing jets once more. Maybe she should continue to nurse her outrage over what he’d said earlier, but Iris never could maintain a good mad. She was too cheerful and optimistic for that. Besides, it was hard to remain angry when she agreed with so much of what he’d said about her father.

“There’s a mere five-year age gap between us so you don’t have to make yourself sound like Father Time in comparison to me,” she told him with a sympathetic little moue. “Cut yourself some slack, you’re only a little past your sell-by date.”

“I’m in my fucking prime, you little witch. I’m not so shallow and vain that I’ll be stricken with despair and doubt by the mere inference that I’m old. Back to my point, why don’t you have more of an online presence?”

“Because I don’t have time to sit around maintaining social media accounts. I work. I help my family, I…” she stopped. Nope. No! She was here to interview him, not vice versa. He didn’t need to know about her life.

But there was one thing she needed to correct.

“My dad,” she began, and watched his magnificent shoulders stiffen and his face go still. He looked like he couldn’t quite believe that she’d dared bring up her father again. “The one allergic to animal dander? His name is Jason Hughes. He’s my stepfather, and he’s been my dad since I was seven years old. He raised me, nurtured me, loved me, and is the only father I’ve ever really known. I’m shocked your extensive research into my life didn’t reveal that most basic fact about me. Jason Hughes is my dad while Stanford Carter is the man who blew into and out of my life once or twice a year for my first thirteen years. But I got my talent and love of writing from him and I owe it to myself, and to him, to explore that talent. This interview with you was my opportunity to do that. To honor my biological father in some way and make my real dad proud of me.”

He stared at her, eyes narrowed, his straight, white teeth chewing at his bottom lip as he appeared to consider her words. He didn’t say anything for a long time before his shoulders shifted. The play of muscles across that broad, tanned expanse captivated Iris and stole her breath away.

“Seems to me that the kind of man you describe your stepdad to be would already be proud of you, regardless of your achievements. While the type of man I know your biological father to have been wouldn’t give an actual fuck about your achievements because he’d likely only ever seen you as an extension of himself. Emulating a fucker like that should be very low down on your list of priorities.”

She hated that his words were a reflection of everything she’d believed herself, but never dared to acknowledge. Stanford Carter had showed little to no interest in her academic achievements, had never read any of her school essays, or poems, or stories. He’d glanced at them whenever she’d proudly handed them to him and patted her on the head, and said things like, “Like father, like daughter” or “That’s my girl” or “Of course you got an A, you’re a chip off the old block.”

Her every achievement had been an opportunity for him to talk about himself. She’d known it, she’d seen it, but until now, until this awful man had laid that obvious truth bare with just a few cruel words, Iris had hoarded all of those non-compliments close and held them up as proof that her father had loved her and had been proud of her.

She dropped her gaze to the water, refusing to let him see how much the obvious truth had devastated her. She didn’t say a word for a few long minutes, and he allowed the silence to simmer between them.