Cupid Has a Terrible Sense of Humor
Sloane
The scent of my mother’s perfume—a blend of jasmine and power—hits me as soon as I cross the threshold of her office.
I mentally prepare myself for the usual emergency meeting.
A PR crisis.
A billionaire client who just changed her mind about her ideal man.
An email from the press with "URGENT" flashing in red.
What I don't expect is the voice I've known forever.
“There’s my favorite girl.”
I freeze in the doorway.
For a second, my brain zeroes out.
Then, slowly, my face lights up.
“Dad?”
He turns in the armchair with his usual crooked smile—the one that makes him look like he always knows more than everyone else. He's in a sport coat, sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar, his beard slightly longer than usual.
And yes, that "sexy coach with too much self-control and too little patience" vibe still suits him perfectly.
“Dad!”
I cross the room in two seconds flat.
He opens his arms, and I fall into them, squeezing him so tight I feel his laugh vibrate against his chest.
“Hey, easy, or you’ll crack my ribs. I still need those.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, still holding him. “Weren’t you supposed to be traveling?”
“Change of plans,” he says, with that calm tone he uses when pretending that life isn’t a chaos of meetings, games, and hysterical executives. “I stopped by to say hi to my girls.”
My girls.
God, I hadn’t heard him say that in weeks.
I smile against his shoulder, and for a moment the rest of the world disappears.
The familiar smell of aftershave, the grip of his hands on my shoulders, the warmth filling my chest—it’s all there, as if he never left.
I pull back just enough to look at his face.
He has a few more wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but the same blue gaze, only seemingly severe.
My mother is standing next to the window, blonde hair impeccably gathered, wearing a lilac suit, beautiful, her hands clasped, her gaze softening in the way it only does when he’s around.
Katherine Heart: elegant, precise, ruthless in meetings… but with Dad, she becomes someone else.
She looks at him as if he were still the only man in the world. He looks at her with the same old gaze—the one that made me believe, since childhood, that true love really existed.
The kind of love that withstands time zones, years, and exhausting work.
The kind that doesn’t need words to be understood.
I push a lock of hair from my face, excited. “Mom, you could have at least warned me! I would have worn a decent dress instead of looking like a soul in agony post-deadline!”
My father shakes his head. I know well that he doesn't care how Mom and I dress or how presentable we are. He’s always made it clear that we're perfect in every situation.
She laughs quietly, arms crossed. “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I knew you’d be happy.”
Dad squeezes me one last time, then kisses my temple.
“How’s work? I saw the new campaign. Impressive.” He winks at me. He’s drop-dead gorgeous; I understand why Mom fell madly in love with him. And… the fact that despite his thousand commitments, he’s interested in and keeps an eye on everything Mom and I do… it’s adorable.
“Thanks! Though I think my blood pressure will never be the same.”
Mom smiles. “She gets it all from you, Julian.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, proudly. “Toxic productivity is my genetic legacy.”
He laughs quietly, runs a hand through my hair, like when I was little.
“And you’re still my girl, even if you dress like a CEO and scare people.”
“I don’t scare anyone.” I reply with a fake pout.
“Yeah, sure. Ask your assistant. When she saw me, she looked ready to throw an NDA at me.”
I smile, and everything inside me relaxes.
It’s as if every time Dad comes back, the whole world slows down.
It doesn’t happen often—the Pro Soccer League, the training, the games, the travel—but when it does, it's like bringing the sun back into the house.
Mom cooks (a rare event), I put down my phone (an even rarer event), and for a few hours, it’s just the three of us.
Team Heart.
That's why at twenty-five, I still live at home with my parents… our moments are special, and I don't feel like living all alone in an apartment just to seem more independent.
We all laugh, and for an instant, it's like we're back to when I was a kid, the evenings he came back from games, still in his tracksuit, and Mom waited for him with wine in hand and me with homework spread on the table.
Our small, imperfect normal.
Love as constancy.
As home.
And yet…
When I look up, something in the air changes.
Because we aren't alone.
A man is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, looking bored but nervous at the same time.
Brown hair, tight jaw, leather jacket. Eyes that look at you like the whole world is a waste of time.
Oh, holy hell.
I know who he is.
Dad gently lets me go.
“Sloane,” he says with suspicious calm. “There’s something we need to talk to you about.”
Cohen Becker.
I look at him.
I look at Mom, who still has that bright smile.
And then back at Cohen, who returns a look that’s halfway between “I didn’t want to be here” and “I don’t know how the hell this happened either.”
Oh no.
Oh, no, no, no.
If Cupid has a sense of humor, he’s laughing until he cries today.