Chapter 28. Florian
The lecture on cognitive dissonance had run long, leaving my brain feeling like over-kneaded dough. I stepped out of the psychology building into the late afternoon.
I adjusted the strap of my leather backpack and headed toward the student lot. I couldn’t wait to go back to my car. Even after a few days, the thrill of it hadn't dulled. I didn't think it would ever dull, to be honest. Every time I thought of the car, my stomach did something funny.
The parking lot was thinning out. I spotted the F-Type immediately. It sat apart from the other cars. I was kind of scared of taking it anywhere, to be honest, but I also couldn't seem to leave it alone. It gleamed, pristine and arrogant, reflecting the burning orange of the sun.
But the light reflected off something else, too. A figure, lurking between my car and a white SUV.
My stomach dropped completely. I knew the way the cheap, oversized windbreaker and that restless shifting of weight from one foot to the other.
Finn.
I stopped ten feet away, my hand tightening around the key fob in my pocket.
He looked rougher than when I had left him at the motel, if that was possible.
I thought he'd be better after the hospital stay but it didn't seem so. His hair was a greasy thatch standing on end, and he was staring at his own reflection in the Jag’s window.
"Dad?" I asked.
Finn jumped, spinning around. His eyes were bloodshot, but they lit up, a smirk on his lips.
"Florry," he rasped. "There's my boy. I was waitin'. I knew you'd be done with your schoolin' soon."
He took a step toward me. I took a step back. The dance was old. He looked back at the car, running a dirty hand along the rear fender. I flinched as if he were touching my own skin. "Fancy ride. Real fancy. That old man of yours... he sure likes to dress you up, huh?"
"What do you want? You're supposed to be recovering. You know he told you not to come looking for me."
"I am recovering!" he insisted, his voice a whine. "I'm doin' great. But…" He patted his pockets, pulling the lining inside out to show emptiness. "I just need a little help. To get back on my feet. Just a bridge, you know? I need to pay for my meds. That sugar daddy of yours didn't buy me meds."
"Knox paid for your hospital," I said. "He handled it all. If you're out of meds, go to the clinic."
"The clinic is for junkies," Finn spat, darkening.
The angry drunk I knew. This was my bitter and horrible childhood.
No wonder my mom left. "I need cash, Florian.
Just a couple hundred. For food. For a place to sleep that isn't under a bridge.
You drivin' this... this spaceship, and you can't spare a dime for the man who raised you? "
"I don't have cash," I said, stepping sideways. "And even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you. I'm not enabling you anymore. I'm done."
Finn’s face contorted. The late sun caught the sweat on his upper lip. "Done? You're done? You think you're better than me now because you spread your legs for some rich pervert?"
My blood heated, a rush of defensive fury for Knox rising in my chest.
"He's a better man than you'll ever be," I said, my voice trembling with rage. "He takes care of me. He doesn't drain me dry."
Finn laughed, harshly. "Takes care of you? He owns you, boy. Look at this." He slapped the roof of the car hard. "This ain't a gift. It's a leash. And now you're turnin' against your own flesh and blood because he told you to."
"He didn't have to tell me anything," I said. "You did this yourself." I moved to unlock the car, desperate to get away. "Go away, Dad. Before I call security."
"Oh, you're gonna call the cops on your dad?" Finn snarled. He looked wild now. He glanced down at the landscaping strip that bordered the parking spots.
He bent down.
"Dad, don't…"
He grabbed a stone, the size of a baseball.
"You love his money more than me?"
He swung his arm.
The sound was sickening. A sharp crack. The stone impacted the driver's side mirror. The glass cracked. I froze, the air leaving my lungs. It was violence, pure and simple. It was a blow meant for my face, redirected to the thing I loved.
"See?" Finn panted, his chest heaving. "See how fragile it is?"
He didn't stop. He dropped the rock and fished a set of keys from his pocket. Before I could move, before my shock could become action, he dragged the jagged metal tip along the driver’s door.
The sound was a shriek, a high-pitched scream of metal on metal that set my teeth on edge.
A long, white scar opened up across the midnight-blue paint.
"DAD, STOP!" I roared.
He danced back, eyes wide and manic. "See how much he loves you when his precious toys get broken!" he taunted. "See if he keeps you when you're damaging his stuff!"
In the distance, I saw the flashing yellow lights of a campus security cart turning down the row, but they were still very far.
Finn saw them too. He spat on the ground near my feet, a glob of phlegm landing inches from my sneaker.
"I know you'll come crawling back to me soon.”
He turned and bolted, scrambling between the parked cars, disappearing into the shadows of the tree line before the security cart could even get close.
I stood there, trembling, the setting sun painting the world in blood-orange hues. The Jaguar, Knox’s beautiful gift, looked violated.
I stared at the white scar on the blue paint, the jagged line looking like a exposed bone. White-hot fury, brighter and purer than anything I had felt in years, surged through my veins.
I spun away from the car, needing to hit something, needing to break something. The brick wall of the facilities shed was right there.
I slammed my fist into it.
The impact jarred my arm all the way to the shoulder. Pain exploded in my knuckles. I pulled my hand back, seeing the skin split, beads of bright red blood welling up to stain the white dust of the brick. It throbbed, bad.
"Fuck!" I screamed, the word ripping out of my throat. "Fuck! Fuck!"
I stood there, panting, cradling my bleeding hand against my chest. The campus security cart had slowed, the officers eyeing me warily from fifty yards away, probably debating if the rich kid having a tantrum was worth the paperwork.
I glared at them until they turned the cart around and drove off, deciding it wasn't their problem.
My pocket buzzed.
I fished the phone out with my good hand. A text from Luna.
Where r u? Professor Miller was asking why ur seat was empty. Don't tell me ur playing hooky w/ Daddy again.
I stared at the screen. I couldn't tell her. She would say, Call the police. She would say, Call Knox. She would be logical and protective, and I couldn't handle logic right now. I was drowning in shame.
I typed back, my fingers shaking from pain: Migraine. Went home early. Cover for me? I shoved the phone back into my pocket before she could reply.
I looked at the Jaguar. The mirror dangled by its wires, looking pathetic. The scratch looked horrible.
Call Daddy. The thought rose up. He will fix it. He fixes everything.
But a darker, louder voice shouted it down. Look what you did to his gift. Look what you allowed to happen. You can't keep running to him. You have to handle this.
If I told him, he would handle Finn. He would involve lawyers and police. But if I fixed it... if I could just make it look okay, maybe I could save us both the trouble. Maybe I could be the adult.
I remembered the roll of black duct tape in my trunk for a school project.
I retrieved the tape. I pushed the mirror housing back into place. It clicked, holding precariously. I began to tape it, winding the gray adhesive around the sleek blue curve.
It looked horrible. A bandage on a supermodel. But it held.
I got in the car. The interior was still perfect, smelling of leather and newness. I started the engine. The purr was the same, but it felt wrong now, as if the car itself was judging me.
I drove. I didn't go home. I drove to an AutoZone three miles away.
I went inside, ignoring the clerk’s stare at my bleeding knuckles. I bought scratch remover, a microfiber cloth, and a polishing compound.
Back in the parking lot, I tried to buff out the scratch. I rubbed at the jagged white line until my arm burned. The compound smeared, turning milky, but when I wiped it away, the gouge remained. It was deep. Through the clear coat, through the paint, down to the primer.
Finn had really wanted to leave his mark.
I stared at it, the bottle of polish heavy in my hand. It was unfixable. Not by me.
Panic began to curdle in my stomach. I couldn't fix it. So I had to hide it.
I checked the time. Dusk had turned to true night. Knox’s garage was massive, cavernous. If I backed in... if I parked in the far corner, away from the overhead lights... maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe I could find a body shop tomorrow, skip class, get it fixed before he ever saw.
It was a stupid plan. A child's plan. But I was desperate to preserve the illusion that I was worthy of this car, that I wasn't just a magnet for destruction.
I got back into the driver's seat. My reflection in the rearview mirror looked wild. I looked like Finn.
I gripped the steering wheel, ignoring the sting in my split knuckles.
I killed the headlights as soon as I cleared the threshold, guiding the Jaguar up the winding drive.
I approached the garage, pulse thrumming in my neck. I pressed the remote, and the heavy door rolled up. Knox’s black Mercedes was parked in its usual spot, the Audi next to it.
I didn't park next to them. Instead, I swung wide, maneuvering the Jaguar into the farthest bay, a spot usually reserved for staff.
It was deep in the shadows, away from the harsh overheads.
I backed in carefully, positioning the car so the driver's side, the wounded side, was pressed almost against the wall, hidden from casual view.
I sat there for a moment in the dark, the engine ticking as it cooled. I felt like a criminal. My hand throbbed where I’d punched the wall, the blood dried and tight across my knuckles. I pulled my sleeve down to cover it.
Just get upstairs, I told myself. Shower. Find a repair shop on your phone.
I grabbed my backpack and slipped out of the car, squeezing through the narrow gap I’d left. I hit the button to close the garage door and scurried toward the mudroom entrance before the lights could catch me. This was a horrible plan, and I knew it. I'd never be able to pretend like that.
The house was quiet.
I moved through the living room, toes curling in my sneakers, trying to be weightless.
"Florian."
The name was spoken softly, not a shout, but it hooked me instantly, freezing my feet to the floor.
I turned.
Knox stood at the center island. The kitchen smelled incredible, sautéed garlic, earthy rosemary, and searing steak. He was in his shirt, sleeves rolled up, a chef’s knife in one hand.
He looked up from the cutting board, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Not smiling. Just... intense.
He knew it. I knew he knew.
"Hi, Daddy," I said. My voice sounded thin. I hugged my backpack to my chest like a shield.
He resumed chopping a red bell pepper, the knife moving in a hypnotic, rhythmic thud-thud-thud against the wood. "How was your day?"
The question was a trap. I knew it. He knew it. I was starting to slightly panic. I chose silence.
He picked up a towel and wiped his hands, his movements agonizingly slow.
Then he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark eyes locked onto mine, and suddenly I felt exposed, stripped bare of my lies and my defenses.
He looked at me not with suspicion, but with a profound, terrifying knowledge.
"Florian," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Come here."
I hesitated. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to bolt up the stairs and lock the door. But the pull of him was like gravity. I took a step into the kitchen. Then another.
When I was close enough to touch, he reached out. He didn't grab me. He simply took my left hand, the damaged one, and pulled it gently from where I was clutching the backpack strap. He pushed up my sleeve, revealing the bruised, blood-crusted knuckles.
He didn't look surprised.
"Who did this?" he whispered. Knox looked up from my hand to my eyes. I didn’t answer. "Kyle called me," he said calmly. "About an hour ago."
The air left the room. Kyle. His head of security. Of course.
"He wanted to intervene, but by the time he realized Finn was escalating, it was already happening. Security protocols mean he can’t physically engage unless there’s an immediate threat to your safety. But he would have. If Finn hadn't fled.”
My knees went weak.
"I tried to fix it," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I tried to buff it out. I didn't want you to see. I didn't want to be... I didn't want to be a disappointment."
"Look at me," Knox commanded softly.
I did. He was looking at me with a sadness that hurt more than anger.
"The car is metal and paint, Florian," he said.
"It can be repaired. It can be replaced.
" He lifted my injured hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the battered knuckles.
"But you wanted to keep this from me. You tried to carry the weight of your father’s violence alone. That... that is what hurts me."
"I'm sorry, Daddy. I never want to hurt you. I was scared," I confessed, a tear slipping down my cheek. "He broke your gift. My car. I thought you'd realize I'm too much trouble."
Knox pulled me into his arms then, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest. I smelled the garlic.
"You are not trouble," he murmured into my hair. "You are mine. And when something attacks what is mine, I eliminate the threat."
“Please, don't eliminate him, he's still my father,” I whispered. He chuckled, softly, and kissed the top of my head.
“I know, sweetheart. Don't think about him anymore. You're safe now. You are safe here with me.”
I shuddered against him, the relief so intense it was dizzying. "But," Knox added, his voice hardening just slightly, the Dom reasserting control, "We will discuss the consequences of hiding things from me. After dinner. And after we clean this hand."
I nodded against his chest, accepting the judgment, accepting the care, the punishment that would come.