Goodbye Kate
His words won’t leave me.
Then you’re fucked.
It keeps circling my skull like a curse, a warning, a promise—because it wasn’t an answer, not really.
It was avoidance wrapped in sharp edges, another mask he pulled down right as I thought I’d caught a glimpse of what lived underneath.
And maybe that’s what makes it worse. That tiny, dangerous flash that he could want me back. That he already does.
But the moment’s gone. And now, with Kate’s suitcases lined by the door and the morning sun bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, everything feels rawer, more fragile.
Dean is in the kitchen. And of course, he’s not the kind of man who throws together cereal and burnt toast. No—he’s a man who conquers breakfast like it’s a battlefield.
He set the long dining table as if he were hosting a banquet, with crystal glasses catching the light and fresh linen napkins precisely folded.
Platters steam with golden croissants, their edges flaking at the faintest touch.
There’s a stack of crepes as thin as silk scarves, dusted with powdered sugar and crowned with blackberries that glisten like jewels.
Fresh-squeezed orange juice glows in a crystal decanter beside a pot of coffee so rich it perfumes the whole room.
He moves through it all like a king presiding over his kingdom, sleeves rolled up, veins flexing as he pours melted chocolate into a porcelain dish like even sugar should bend to his command.
Kate sits at the table, still groggy, hair tied up in a messy bun, her oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. She yawns, completely oblivious to the storm that’s still raging between me and her father.
“Jesus, Dad,” she mutters, reaching for a croissant. “This isn’t breakfast—it’s Versailles.”
Dean smirks faintly, setting the pot of coffee down. “It’s called effort, Kate. Something you’d understand if you ever cooked anything more complicated than ramen.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness in them. Familiar banter. Easy.
And then her gaze slides to me. “Don’t let him fool you—he only cooks like this when he wants to impress someone.”
Heat scorches my cheeks before I can stop it, and Dean’s eyes flick to mine, sharp, knowing, lingering a second too long. My chest tightens.
Kate, of course, notices none of it. She’s too busy piling her plate high, laughing as she butters bread with far too much enthusiasm.
I can’t eat. My stomach is in a knot, too twisted with the taste of last night, too full of the unspoken hanging heavy between me and the man across the table.
It’s the strangest contradiction—lavish abundance on the table, but every bite feels laced with absence. Soon Kate will be gone, and then it will just be me. And him.
And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
The smell of coffee is too rich, too dark, clinging to the back of my throat. I stir a sugar cube into the porcelain cup in front of me just to keep my hands from shaking, watching the swirl of white dissolve into black.
Kate chatters on, filling the silence the way she always does. “So, when I get back, I’m telling you right now, Brooklyn, you are not allowed to let my plants die. Last time you left the monstera by the window and it got crispy.”
I manage a smile, nodding like my chest isn’t aching. “I’ll keep them alive. Promise.”
Her grin is wide and easy, and I hate I envy it. She does not know that the surrounding air is dangerous, charged, like we’re all sitting at the edge of a live wire.
Dean doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to.
He sits at the head of the table, his fork moving in slow, deliberate motions, cutting into a stack of crepes with the precision of a man who never loses control.
But every time my eyes flick to him—against my better judgment—I catch him already looking at me.
Not in a way Kate would ever pick up on. He’s too skilled at hiding in plain sight. But I feel it in my bones. The weight of him. The claim in his silence.
I force myself to reach for a croissant, tearing a piece off to distract myself. Flakes scatter onto the plate, soft and golden, and I chew even though my throat is too tight to swallow.
Kate leans back in her chair, sipping orange juice like champagne. “This is insane, Dad. Seriously. Do you even know how much food you made? You trying to feed a small army?”
Dean wipes the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, his voice smooth, unreadable. “It’s your last morning here. I thought it deserved something more than dry cereal.”
“God, you’re so dramatic,” Kate laughs. “But I’m not complaining. This is better than any other brunch spot.” She glances at me, eyes twinkling. “See? He’s not all business. Sometimes he surprises you.”
The spoon trembles in my hand, rattling against the cup. I drop it too quickly, pretending it’s fine, pretending I’m fine.
Dean’s gaze pins me in place across the table, sharp enough to strip me bare. His daughter sits right there, blissfully unaware, and still—still—he looks at me like he already knows what I taste like. Like he’s remembering.
“Brooklyn?” Kate nudges me. “You okay?”
I clear my throat, plastering on a smile that feels brittle. “Yeah. Just… not that hungry.”
“Good thing Dad made enough for me, then,” she teases, reaching for another crepe.
Dean’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and my pulse stumbles. I don’t know why it feels like punishment, but it does. Like my refusal to eat what he made is some kind of rebellion he won’t forget.
Kate hums around a mouthful of food, completely oblivious to the war waging between her father and me. “When I get back, we’ll go to that rooftop bar again, okay? Girls’ night. No assistants, no bosses, no men. Just us.”
Her words cut deeper than she knows. No men. As if I haven’t already let myself drown in the one man I shouldn’t have touched.
I nod, because that’s what I do—pretend.
Pretend it doesn’t feel like Dean’s stare is a brand pressed to my skin, burning me alive.
Pretend my hands aren’t shaking as I lift the cup to my lips.
Pretend I’m not terrified of what’s going to happen when she’s gone and it’s just us left in this house full of silence and sin.
The clink of cutlery is too loud in the bright dining room, echoing between us like a secret trying to break free. Dean’s fork scrapes across porcelain, measured, steady. Mine just hovers, my croissant torn to shreds on the plate, untouched.
Kate, of course, is eating like she hasn’t seen food in days. She talks between bites, words spilling out as easily as the orange juice into her glass.
“Okay, but we have to plan the next trip properly. Like, I don’t want another last-minute thing where we’re scrambling. I’m thinking Italy? Or maybe Greece. Can you imagine us on a yacht? Sunburnt, drunk, annoying everyone with our karaoke?”
I force a laugh, but it comes out thinner than I mean it to. “Sounds… perfect.”
She doesn’t notice. She never does. She just keeps going, fork in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other.
“Brooklyn, don’t you think Dad would look ridiculous on a yacht? Like, tux in the sun, glaring at all the twenty-something’s in their bikinis.”
Dean doesn’t even glance her way. He’s still watching me. Only me.
I stab at my plate, the food turning to ash in my mouth. The silence between us hums louder than Kate’s teasing, thick as smoke.
She finally catches the edge in the air and squints. “You guys are so quiet this morning. It’s freaking me out. Did you fight or something?”
My chest tightens. Dean doesn’t blink, doesn’t break the stare. I swallow hard, shaking my head. “No. Just tired.”
Kate snorts. “Lame excuse, but fine. I’ll carry the team’s energy.” She pops another bite of crepe into her mouth, sighing like she’s in heaven. “God, Dad, you should open a restaurant or something. Forget the empire; just feed people. They’d worship you.”
The sharp curve of his mouth is almost a smile, but not quite. “I already have more than enough people who worship me.”
The words were not meant for her. They’re meant for me. I feel them slide beneath my skin like a blade.
Kate doesn’t hear the weight in his voice. She just laughs, wiping powdered sugar from her fingers. “Classic Dad. So dramatic all the time.
I shift in my chair, thighs pressing together under the table as if I can press the memory of last night away. His hand between my legs. His mouth on my throat. His voice rasping good girl until I shattered.
My cup is empty. I pour more coffee just to have something to do, but my hand shakes enough that the liquid nearly spills.
Kate groans. “Ugh, I don’t even want to leave now. This is too good. Why is it you only make the fancy stuff when I’m about to go?”
“Because I know how to make an exit,” Dean replies smoothly, eyes never leaving mine.
The room feels smaller. Hotter. I can’t breathe.
Kate rolls her eyes, shoving another piece of food into her mouth. “Whatever. Brooklyn, tell him he’s ridiculous.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I can’t say a word. Not with him watching me like that. Not with his daughter sitting right there, smiling like we aren’t both drowning in something she can’t even name.
The smell of butter and sugar lingers in the air, clinging to the sunlight that pours through the tall windows.
Dean sets his knife down with deliberate precision, the metal glinting before it rests flat against the edge of his plate.
He hasn’t eaten much, just enough to make it look like he has.
He doesn’t need to. He feeds on something else entirely.
Kate doesn’t notice, too busy licking a smear of raspberry jam from her thumb. “Seriously though, Brooklyn, you’re staying, right? Dad said you’d still be helping him with the company over the summer.”
My fork stills midair. Heat crawls up the back of my neck as his gaze slices into me across the table.
“Yes,” I manage, softer than I intend. “Just for the summer.”
Dean tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows that’s a lie.
Kate beams. “Good! Then you can keep him from brooding. He does that too much when I’m gone. Don’t you, Dad?”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “Maybe I brood because you notice too much.”
Kate laughs, completely mishearing the warning buried in the words. “Oh please, you love when I notice things. Admit it.”
Dean admits nothing. Not to her. Not to me. But his stare is a confession all on its own, heavy and unrelenting, making my chest tighten until I can barely breathe.
Kate suddenly claps her hands together, nearly knocking over her juice. “Oh! I almost forgot—I need to check if my flight’s on time. Where did I put my phone?”
She’s up from the table in an instant, her chair scraping across the tile as she disappears into the living room.
The silence she leaves behind is suffocating.
Dean leans back in his chair, slow, deliberately, his hand curling around his coffee cup as if he could crush it with the smallest flex. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Brooklyn.”
My pulse spikes. I swallow hard, my nails digging into my thighs under the table. “You started it.”
The low sound in his chest could almost be a laugh. Almost.
Kate’s voice calls from the other room: “Found it!”
I flinch, my throat tightening, because when she comes back, we’ll have to pretend again. Pretend as if nothing happened last night. Pretend this morning isn’t one long unravelling.
Dean doesn’t move. He just watches me. Watches me break beneath the weight of everything unsaid.
Kate breezes back in, phone in hand, oblivious to the storm clawing through the room. “Okay, the flight’s on time. I guess this is it.”
She’s smiling, but I can’t. Not with his stare burning into me, not with the silence screaming louder than her words.
Kate piles toast onto her plate like she’s stocking up for a week, humming some pop song under her breath, her bracelets clinking when she gestures.
“You’re both staring at me like I’m never coming back,” she teases, ripping her toast in half. “It’s three weeks, not three years. Chill.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. He sets his mug down a little too hard, coffee rippling to the rim. “Three weeks is plenty of time for things to change.”
Kate frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he said, his voice clipped and final. He picks up his fork, but he doesn’t eat.
I grip my glass too tightly, condensation slick on my palm. The words hang between them like smoke, bitter and dangerous, and I don’t know which of us he’s warning.
Kate shakes it off, too used to his moods. “Well, don’t go rearranging my room or anything. I’ll be back before you can miss me.”
Her phone buzzes. She checks the screen, then pushes back her chair. “Car’s here.”
Just like that, the moment slams into me. Too fast, too soon.
Dean rises, every movement controlled. He towers when he steps around the table, sliding Kate’s bag off the counter like it weighs nothing. “I’ll walk you out.”
I trail after them, my chest aching with words I can’t say. The front door yawns open, sunlight spilling in too bright for how heavy everything feels.
Kate throws her arms around me first. “Don’t let him work you to death, okay?” she whispers into my ear, warm and oblivious. “And don’t let him get too grumpy without me.”
I force a smile, hugging her back. “I’ll try.”
She pulls away, eyes sparkling. “Promise me you’ll text. Daily updates.”
“I promise.” My throat burns.
She turns to Dean last, rising on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Bye, Daddy. Try not to scare Brooklyn too much.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even answer. He just nods, staring over her shoulder straight at me while his hand lingers a beat too long at her back.
Kate bounds down the steps, tossing her hair in the sunlight, waving like nothing’s wrong. The driver loads her suitcase, the car door slams, and she’s gone—swallowed by the world beyond the gates.
The silence that follows is a different kind of suffocating. The house is too big, too empty, and Dean’s shadow is suddenly everywhere.
He closes the door with a soft click. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to.
Because now it’s just us.