Chapter 20
MAX
Bastard Billionaire
Inever thought picking a shirt would make me want to puke.
But here I am—standing in front of my closet like it’s a firing squad, every hanger holding a different version of me I’m not sure I want to bring to the table.
Leather jacket Max? Too aggressive.All-black Max? Might as well show up looking like I’m going to punch him in the will.White T-shirt Max? What am I, a commercial for artisanal oat milk?
I drag my hand through my hair for the fiftieth time, then glance at my phone again.The meeting’s in two hours.Private restaurant. Back entrance. Neutral ground.
Lawrence Westwood’s assistant made the arrangements like it was a corporate merger.
I stare back at the clothes. Half my wardrobe is stage-ready chaos—torn denim, boots that still have sand in them from Rio, a hoodie that smells faintly like cat.
And then there’s the stuff I never wear. The “meet the label execs” stuff. Button-downs. Real pants.
I grab one of the button-downs and toss it onto the bed. Then immediately regret it.
“I hate this,” I mutter.
Melody, ever unsympathetic, lifts her head from my pillow and yawns.
“Thanks for the emotional support,” I tell her.
There’s a knock on the doorframe. I turn and find Nora leaning there, holding two mugs. One is definitely for me. The other is probably hers—but I wouldn’t put it past her to bring both just in case I needed backup caffeine.
“You look like you’re preparing for battle,” she says.
“Might as well be.” I take the mug from her. “If I wear a jacket, does that make me look like I care too much? But if I don’t, do I look like I don’t take this seriously? Is there a dress code for confronting your emotionally absent billionaire father?”
“Smart casual with emotional armor,” she says, totally deadpan.
I huff out a laugh. “Perfect.”
She walks in, glancing at the disaster that is my bed. “Okay, not that one.” She points to the stiff button-down I tossed earlier. “You look like you’re going to sell me luxury real estate in that.”
“So what do I wear?”
She pauses, then walks to my closet, sifting through hangers like she’s been doing it for years. After a moment, she pulls out a navy shirt—simple, soft, the kind that says I’m not trying but still looks good.
“This one. And those dark jeans that actually fit.”
I raise a brow. “You sure?”
She hands me the shirt. “You want to feel like you. Not some press release version of yourself. Don’t go in trying to impress him. Go in remembering who you are.”
I nod slowly, the tightness in my chest loosening just a little.
“You’re going to be fine, Max.”
“I’m not worried about him,” I say. “I’m worried about me.”
She steps in front of me, her hand sliding to my jaw. “You’re allowed to be. But you’re doing this for the right reasons. Not for him. For you. For the kid who never got answers.”
I lean into her touch. “Can I still throw a drink in his face if he says something smug?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “Just don’t wear white. That’s hard to clean.”
I grin, just barely.
***
The car is too quiet.
I could’ve taken an Uber. Hell, I could’ve walked. But something about driving myself felt... necessary. Like I needed to hold the wheel if I was about to steer straight into a personal hellscape.
The meeting spot is a private dining room tucked inside a luxury restaurant in Tribeca—exclusive enough to have no signage, no photos, and enough off-the-books meetings under its belt to keep entire PR departments employed.
Lawrence Westwood’s kind of place.
The valet takes my keys like I’m someone important. Maybe they recognize me. Or maybe they just assume I’m rich enough to belong here.
I don’t feel like I belong anywhere right now.
The hostess leads me through a corridor so quiet my boots sound too loud. She opens a door at the end and says, “He’s waiting inside, Mr. Donovan.”
I almost correct her—It’s just Max—but I don’t.
Because maybe today, it’s not.
I step in.
The room is all wood paneling and glass. A single table. One man seated.
Lawrence Westwood stands as I enter.
He’s exactly how I imagined him.
Tailored suit. Polished watch. Not a strand of hair out of place. He looks less like a father and more like a high-powered lawyer who bills by the hour.
My father—by blood and absolutely nothing else.
He stands as I enter. Offers a hand I don’t take. His expression doesn’t change. No smile, no apology. Just professional neutrality, like this is a quarterly investor meeting and I’m a number that didn’t quite add up.
“Maxwell,” he says.
“It’s Max,” I reply flatly.
He nods and gestures to the seat across from him. “Please.”
I sit. Not because he told me to, but because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he intimidates me.
He waits for a server to pour our waters, as if this is a social lunch. Only after we’re alone again does he speak.
“I’m glad you came. I wanted to speak face to face. In light of recent... developments.”
“You mean the article. Jake Armstrong blowing up your carefully buried secret?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Correct.”
“And now you’re here.” I lean forward. “Not because you suddenly want a relationship with your son, but because your PR team told you it would look better if you ‘took responsibility.’”
He considers that. “I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending that’s not a factor.”
My stomach turns. I sit back, arms crossed. “At least you’re honest about being a cold bastard.”
“There’s a lot at stake, Max.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m well aware of what's at stake. Your empire. Your reputation. Your golden brand of polished ruthlessness.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. “You have every right to be angry. But this—” he gestures between us “—isn’t personal for me. It’s strategic. There’s media momentum building, and the longer we leave it, the more it spirals.”
“You’re seriously sitting there talking about my existence like it’s a PR wildfire.”
“You are a wildfire right now, Max. Every blog, every headline, every whisper in this industry is about you. About us.”
“There is no us,” I snap.
Another pause. And then he lays it out, smooth and rehearsed:
“I’d like to issue a joint statement,” he says. “Something brief. Acknowledging the truth, expressing mutual respect, and stating that we’ve chosen to build a private relationship going forward. We avoid litigation, you control your narrative, and I stabilize mine.”
A bitter laugh rips out of me. “A joint statement? You think I’m going to stand next to you and pretend we’re suddenly playing catch after decades of silence?”
“It’s not about pretending,” he says coolly. “It’s about containment. You may not want anything from me, but your name is now tied to mine—publicly and permanently. We don’t have the luxury of distance anymore.”
I shove back my chair slightly, heart pounding. “You had 32 years of distance. You had a kid who lived ten subway stops away and never once picked up the phone. Never asked if I needed help. Never sent a goddamn birthday card.”
His expression doesn’t waver. “I stayed away to protect my family. My position. My company. You and your mother chose privacy, and I honored that.”
I stare at him, stunned. “You didn’t honor anything. You disappeared. You let her drown. She worked double shifts, pawned her instruments to pay for my braces, and never once complained. She was stronger than you’ll ever be.”
He exhales slowly. “I don’t doubt that. She raised you well. And you’ve clearly built something for yourself. But now—whether you like it or not—you’re part of this. The world knows. The story’s out. My proposal is simple: we shape the narrative before someone else does.”
“You’re unbelievable,” I say. “You think this is about narrative? About optics?”
His voice sharpens. “It is about optics. In our world, perception is reality. You might hate that, but you’ve benefited from it too. You built an image. You sell it every time you step on a stage.”
I shoot to my feet. “Don’t compare what I built to what you bought.”
“I’m offering you a seat at the table,” he says evenly. “No obligations. Just opportunity. You can take it or leave it.”
I stare down at him. And at that moment, I don’t see a father. I see a man who’s used to making people disappear—or obey.
I don’t want his table.I don’t want his deals.I want the truth. I already got it.
I grab my jacket.
“We’re done here,” I say.
“Max—”
“You don’t get to say my name like it means something to you. It never did.”
I walk out.
***
The elevator dings behind me as I step into the penthouse, drop my keys onto the counter, and exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the minute I walked into that restaurant.
I’m not sure if I feel lighter or just emptied out. Like the anger burned hot and fast, and now all that’s left is quiet.
I toe off my boots, scrub a hand through my hair, and grab my phone.
Max:
Hey. Any idea what time you’re coming over?
I don’t even sit down. I just stand there, phone in hand, watching the screen like it owes me comfort.
Three dots appear.
Then her reply pings in:
Nora:
Now ;)
My eyebrows lift.
Another ping.
Nora:
Check the door, Rockstar.
I blink, then practically jog across the apartment and swing the door open.
There she is.Wearing jeans and a cozy sweater. Hair loose. Holding a little tote bag that I’m 99% sure contains the power to bring me back to life.
She grins up at me. “Hey.”
Something in my chest unstitches at the sight of her.
“Hey,” I breathe. “You weren’t kidding.”
She kicks off her shoes and sets her bag down. “So? How’d it go?”
I look at her, at the only person who makes the weight of today feel manageable.
“Brutal,” I admit. “But I walked out. Didn’t say yes to anything. Didn’t shake his hand. Didn’t agree to pretend we’re something we’re not.”
She steps closer. “And how do you feel?”
I hesitate. “Like... I didn’t get what I wanted, but I got what I needed. I saw him. I heard the truth. And now I know.”
She nods, reaching up to brush her fingers through my hair. “I’m proud of you.”
“Even if I told him to go to hell?”
“Especially because of that.”
I grin.
“I brought provisions,” she announces, holding up a paper bag like it’s sacred treasure.
I blink. “What kind of provisions?”
She grins and walks straight into the kitchen. “Let’s see… one bottle of Glenlivet—because I figured this was a top shelf kind of meltdown. One large pizza—half roasted garlic, half your beloved pineapple. And...”
She pauses dramatically and pulls out a small bag of treats with pastel packaging.
“For Melody,” she says.
I stare at her. “You brought my cat treats.”
“I came prepared,” she says. “I Googled ‘bribing emotionally intelligent cats’ and this was highly rated.”
Melody chooses this moment to slink into the room, eyes narrowed like she already knows she’s about to be placated. Nora crouches down and holds out the bag.
“Would you like one?”
Melody sniffs, considers, then graciously accepts a treat and wanders off like a tiny furry empress. Nora beams. “We’re making progress.”
I laugh—actual, startled laughter. It feels strange in my mouth after the day I’ve had. Strange, but good.
“Seriously,” I say, stepping closer, “you didn’t have to do all this.”
She shrugs, busy unpacking the pizza. “You had a day. I figured whiskey and carbs couldn’t hurt.”
I chuckle and grab two glasses. “You want a pour?”
“Definitely. But small. If I get tipsy, I’ll start singing badly and emotionally petting your couch.”
“I’d pay to see that.”
We settle onto the couch with two slices each and a generous pour of whiskey. Melody hops up beside us, clearly angling for more treats. Nora tosses her another.
For the first time all day, the pressure in my chest eases.
I clink my glass against hers. “To pizza, whiskey, and women who show up with both.”
She grins. “To emotionally complex men who tell their dads to go fuck themselves.”
Touché.
Two glasses of whiskey later, Nora’s got her feet in my lap, sauce on her chin, and she's giggling so hard she almost drops her third slice.
“You’re making that face again,” she says, pointing at me with the crust. “That broody rockstar face. Like you’re about to write a song called Sad Pizza and Existential Crisis in D Minor.”
I smirk. “Pretty sure that’s our next single.”
She mock-gasps. “Do I get writing credit?”
“If you keep feeding Melody treats like this, you get executive producer credit.”
Melody is sprawled across the back of the couch like a fainting Victorian widow. I think she might be drunk on tuna.
Nora leans forward, eyes glassy with warmth and whiskey. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.”
“You okay?” Her voice softens, cutting through the haze.
I nod slowly. “I am now.”
She smiles. It’s crooked, lazy, devastating. “Good.”
Then she moves—slides right into my lap, one knee on either side of me. Her arms loop around my neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is.
“You taste like scotch and trouble,” she murmurs.
“And you taste delicious.”
She kisses me. Hard. Messy. Laughing into it like she can’t believe we’re doing this—again—but also like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
It starts clumsy. Too much teeth, not enough coordination. I knock over a throw pillow. She spills a little whiskey on my shirt. Melody huffs in offense and relocates with a dramatic tail flick.
And still—none of it matters.
Because she’s in my lap and on my lips and the world could end right now and I’d die happy.
I slide my hands under her sweater, feeling the warmth of her skin, and she shivers, gasping into my mouth like the touch surprised her. Like it still feels brand new.
“You keep kissing me like this,” I murmur against her neck, “and I’m going to forget what restraint feels like.”
Her fingers tangle in my hair. “Promise?”
God help me.
I kiss her again, slower now, savoring every second. Her laugh dies into a moan. The kind that makes me forget every single thing that isn’t her.
But somewhere in the blur—right before I lose all control—I hear myself say it.
“I want you to come with me.”
She blinks at me, dazed. “Huh?”
“On tour,” I say, breathless. “Come with me. Before the charity event. With the band.”