Page 87 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I nod once. “You’re late.”

A slight smile touches his mouth, just enough to suggest he’s amused, though not at my expense. “You’re a King, all right.”

I don’t smile back. He slides into the booth across from me and sets a small leather-bound notebook on the table, though he doesn’t open it.

“Robert Crane,” he says. “Though I think you already knew that.”

The name lands heavy in the air between us. Crane. It’s a name that floats behind foundations, corporate acquisitions, whispered campaign contributions. Not a name I ever thought would sit across from me at a booth like this, speaking to me like I was anything more than a headline.

“You’ve known who I am your entire life,” I say, my voice carefully even.

“Since the day you were born,” he replies without hesitation.

“And you never reached out.”

His expression doesn't shift. But his voice softens slightly. “Your mother didn’t want me to. And I respected her decision.”

“She manipulated you.”

“She made her world exactly how she needed it to be.”

His words are measured, not defensive, not bitter. And that bothers me more than it should.

“I’m not interested in justifying her choices,” he continues. “Only in explaining mine.”

I lean back, folding my arms. “Then let me ask you the only question that matters, why now?”

He exhales, slow and steady, and for the first time I see something behind his eyes, weariness, maybe, or something deeper.

“Because the truth was going to come out,” he says. “And I wanted you to hear it from me, not from an article, or your mother’s enemies, or the echo chamber that is the internet.”

“Damage control, then.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “This isn’t about saving face. This is about giving you what I should have given you years ago, a chance to look me in the eye and decide for yourself who I am.”

His voice is low, earnest, and damn him, it doesn’t sound rehearsed.

“I don’t know what you expect from this,” I murmur.

“I don’t expect anything. I came here hoping for a conversation. Nothing more.”

He leans forward slightly.

“I’ve watched you grow into someone I could never have imagined. Someone your mother built in her own image, and somehow, despite it all, you still became your own man.”

Something twists in my chest.

“I don’t need a father,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intend. “I had one.”

He nods, accepting it without flinching. “You did. And from what I saw, he raised you well.”

We sit in silence for a moment.

Then he adds, “But you deserved the truth. That’s all I have left to give.”

***

When we part, he doesn’t ask to meet again. He doesn’t linger. He just stands, offers his card, and says, “If you ever want to know more, about me, about anything, I’ll be here. But the decision’s yours now.”

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