28. Parker
Parker
The open carry-on on my bed stares me down, half-packed like it knows I’m still figuring out what the hell I’m doing.
I toss in a couple of shirts, a change of pants, and my travel-sized toiletries. It’s one night—long enough to handle my father, then get the hell back.
The bag hangs open, waiting. Just like everything else in my life has been lately—unfinished and untied.
Until yesterday, when I finally closed one of those loops. At least now I’ve made one decision for my future. I’m staying in Palm Beach as the newest assistant general surgeon at Good Samaritan.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the suitcase like it might give me answers.
This is what I trained for. Two residencies. A surgical fellowship. Years of blood, no sleep, and enough bad coffee to rot my insides.
I’ve been chasing the next right thing for so long, I almost didn’t recognize it when it finally landed in my lap.
And now it has—here, in a town I never meant to stay, at a hospital I only stepped into to avoid freezing my ass off in Cleveland.
I should be celebrating a win. But I'm not. Not when the person I want to share it with keeps slipping further away every time I reach for her.
Adair says she’s busy. And she is—Citrine’s blowing up, and no one hustles harder than she does.
But there’s a wall now, a distance between us that wasn’t there before.
We stayed up late the night before last, and she toasted my offer with a crooked smile and cheap champagne from the bodega around the corner. She even let me trace lazy circles on her bare back until she fell asleep.
But it wasn’t the same as it was before everything changed with a goddamn article.
She laughs at my jokes, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She kisses me, but it’s always brief, like she's holding back enough to protect her heart.
The worst part is, I get it. I don't blame her. My father fucked everything up, like I worried he would.
From what I’ve seen, hell, from what I’ve learned in this whirlwind of a marriage, Adair doesn’t slow down. She doesn’t take her foot off the gas, not even for a second. When things get uncertain, she builds. When it hurts, she works harder.
I think it’s her way of staying in control.
I wish she’d let me in long enough to show her I’m not going anywhere.
So I’m going to prove it the only way I can.
I shift my call days, pull in a favor, and stack my next rotation so I can take the next two days without screwing anyone over.
No one questioned it. Kowalski even said it was smart to take a breath before the real work begins. But this isn’t a breather.
This is for her.
Because if there’s even a sliver of a chance that confronting my father shuts this shit down for good—if it makes her feel even one ounce safer being with me, being seen with me—then it’s worth it.
I stand, jaw tight, phone already in my hand. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it changes nothing.
But at least I’ll know I didn’t sit here and let her walk away thinking she was in this alone.
I zip up the suitcase and set it by the door. A conversation like this can’t be had over the phone. Not with my dad. Not when it’s this important.
He’s the kind of man who thrives on control, who thinks he knows what’s best for everyone around him. If I want him to hear me, I need to be there in person.
It’s not like I have a better plan, anyway. And I need to do something, anything.
I check my phone again—habit, not hope. No messages from Adair. I didn’t expect one, but it still stings.
The silence between us is heavier than anything I’ve ever felt. Not because she thinks I betrayed her, but because I didn’t protect her. I let my father use her like a pawn, and I stood there like I didn’t know how the game worked.
She told me she wants the annulment, as long as we can keep the original terms. No strings. That’s what I offered. So I’ll honor it.
I don’t want it. But I get it.
With all this hanging over her head, the whispers, the articles, the accusations, of course she wants out. Wants space. Wants freedom from being tied to someone like me .
But that doesn’t mean I’m walking away knowing I let my father drag her name through the mud on his way out.
I grab the suitcase and head for the door.
Outside, the breeze hits me—salt and sun and that lowcountry scent that’s somehow become home. I’ve built something here. A job. A life. Maybe even a future.
And if there’s even a chance that the future includes Adair, I need to be the man who earns it.
Starting now.
I lock up, load my bag in the car, and get in.
I’m not going to DC to explain.
I’m going to make my father fix it.
The traffic in DC is every bit as miserable as I remember—tight lanes, angry horns, and drivers who treat turn signals like personal weaknesses.
I roll to a stop outside my father’s office, a glass-and-granite monument to ego wedged between a corporate law firm and a high-end steakhouse. Leeland Matthews, Esq., has always had a knack for placing himself dead center in the city’s power grid.
I exit the Uber and stare up at the building.
I didn’t come here to fight. I came to fix what he broke.
Not for me. For her.
I step into the lobby and instantly sense the shift—cool marble floors, espresso bar to the left, a massive oil painting of my father shaking hands with someone powerful and forgettable.
The receptionist clocks me the second I walk in. She doesn’t even pretend to check the calendar. “Conference floor,” she says, pointing toward the elevator.
The ride up is long. I run through the conversation in my head, trying to keep a lid on the part of me that still reacts to him like he has the upper hand.
I’m not here for his approval. I’m here because his actions hurt someone who didn’t deserve it, and that I care very much about. And he’s going to fix it.
When the elevator opens, I can see straight through the glass walls into his office. He’s pacing his large corner office like he owns the city. He's holding his phone out, speaking loudly to the person on the other end. He sees me step into the hall and lifts a hand to wave me in.
“Hold that thought,” he says into the receiver. “I’ll circle back after this. Let me sit on it for a bit and call you back.”
He hangs up and turns to me with a polished, practiced smile. “Son. What a pleasant surprise. I guess payback for showing up in Palm Beach without letting you know.”
I close the door behind me.
“This isn’t a social visit,” I say flatly. “We need to talk.”
The smile fades by a degree, but he gestures toward the chair across from him like he’s doing me a favor. “Let me guess. Adair?”
I stay standing. “You know why I’m here. The article. The PR stunt. The damage to her name, her business, everything she’s built. Why the fuck did you do that?”
He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling like I’ve disappointed him. “You’re looking at this emotionally. I was protecting you and our family’s legacy. You wouldn't listen to reason, so I had to take it upon myself.”
“No. You did what you always do—control the narrative, no matter who gets crushed in the process.”
“She would have done it to you if you hadn't done it first,” he says. “It was a business transaction, not a real marriage. Surely you understand that. ”
“You're a miserable person,” I snap. “You see everything as a win-lose.
You keep telling me not to look at things emotionally.
You need to try it for a change. You hurt her, and you didn't have to do that to get your rocks off. You have plenty of money and control without inserting yourself into this.”
His gaze sharpens. “So what do you want from me? Did you come here to scold me?”
I step forward. “A full public statement. Not spin. Not damage control. Accountability . You’re going to retract the article. You’re going to take responsibility. And you’re going to clear her name.”
Leeland leans back, eyes narrowing slightly. “And if I don’t?”
My jaw tightens. “Then you lose the one thing you care about more than control—your reputation. I’ll go to the media myself. And trust me, I won’t be as generous with the narrative.”
He leans back in his chair like a king still holding court, but I see the twitch in his jaw. “So, what is this? You come storming in here to lecture me?”
“No,” I say, voice steady. “I came to make you fix what you broke.”
“You mean the article?” he says with that patronizing smirk I’ve hated since I was old enough to recognize what manipulation smells like. “That wasn’t personal. It was strategic.”
“No,” I say again, stepping closer. “It was calculated cruelty. And now, you're going to retract it. Publicly. No spin. No PR bandage. A real statement, admitting it was you.”
His eyes narrow. “And if I don’t?”
I give him a moment. Let the silence build.
“I’ll go public,” I say, calm and low. “With everything. Starting with the fact that you’re sleeping with Judge Marianne Lockhart.”
There it is. The crack. Subtle, but clean. His breath stills. His spine stiffens. The kind of reaction a man gives when he realizes someone touched the live wire he thought was buried deep.
He lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Marianne Lockhart? You have an active imagination, son. I’ve had clients accused of worse in divorce filings. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”
I don't blink. “You’re right. Allegations aren’t proof. But the private townhome in Georgetown you keep under a shell corp, the one listed in her clerk’s name? That's in black and white. And I've got a copy of the shell corp minutes, showing you as the co-director.”
His eyes narrow, but his smile doesn’t falter. “Now you’re reading too many Reddit threads.”
“You’ve been seen entering that townhouse more than a dozen times in the last year. Never with security. Never with staff. Always late. Always alone. Always before or after Judge Lockhart does.”
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he adjusts the cuff of his shirt like we’re discussing weather patterns. “I do a lot of business off the clock.”
I nod slowly. “So does Marianne. Like scheduling your cases to always fall on her docket. Like pushing those lobbying-friendly settlements through in half the time. Like that cozy little dinner party two weeks ago, the two of you and her husband. Must’ve been awkward.”
His jaw ticks. A muscle jumps beneath his temple.
"It isn't unusual for me to have dinner with Pete Lockhart and his wife. That isn't inappropriate. Stop trying to make something out of nothing."
I put the screws in. “Good 'ol Pete. His company handled the PR for your last ethics panel appearance. And he’s the father of your godson, isn’t he?”
Nothing. But his silence is louder than a confession.
“I don’t care who you sleep with, Dad,” I say, voice flat. “But you built your life on the illusion of control. On reputation. That pristine legal veneer? It shatters real fast if this story breaks. And I’ll break it myself if you don’t fix what you did to Adair.”
His expression darkens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
I step closer, slow and steady. “You always wanted me to be more like you. Ruthless. Detached. Strategic. Roger always talked about your life as a house of cards. He's also the one who said all it takes is one gust of truth to bring it down.”
His eyes flash. “Roger was a fool.”
“No,” I say. “He was always smarter than you. He let you think you were the smartest.”
Now he flinches. Just enough.
“I don’t need your legacy. I don’t need your approval.
But I’ll be damned if I let you drag the woman I love through hell because she doesn’t fit your mold.
You retract the article. You clear her name.
Or I let the entire Beltway know exactly what kind of man you are and the heads you've stepped on to get to where you are.”
Leeland's voice is ice. “You’d take me down to protect her?”
“I’d take the whole goddamn city down.”