Page 80 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

Truthfully, the place should be razed simply for the health risk…but my dad, in a ploy for good PR via philanthropy, made a big deal out of his plans to revitalize the Baldwin Shopping Mall.

And he failed an entire community when he stopped caring.

“Uh, yes. Yes, sir. Chuck Sandoval is my father,” I reply dumbly, feeling shame.

Mr.Rivers hums, more of a grunt, but he only says, “What? There aren’t enough girls with trust funds up on your side of town?”

No one says anything; we all just stare at the man at the head of the table who glares at us in return with red, angry eyes.

“Daddy, what are you—” Mr.Rivers’ hand comes down over the Chantilly lace-covered table.

“What game are you playing, kid?”

“Reggie—”

“Daddy—”

“No!” Mr.Rivers leans forward, pushing his empty plate away. “Clearly you have a thing for my daughter. I’ve watched you make moon eyes at her all night. But to what end? What are you really doing here slumming it outside of Gold Coast?”

“Reginald!”

“Opal, this boy?—”

“Sir,” I cut in, keeping my voice calm even though Shae’s silence across the table has me wanting to crawl out of my skin. “Please believe me when I say I have no intentions of playing any games—especially with Shae. I…I care about her very much.”

The tension thickens, and I keep my gaze locked on Shae’s father…because I cannot look at Shae.

After another heartbeat, Mr. Rivers stands from the table, moving slowly as if in pain.

“Clean up the table, Shae. Your mama slaved over that stove to make this delicious dinner foryour guest.” I don’t miss the way he emphasizes the last part. “The least you can do is load the dishwasher.”

I finally look at her. Shae stares at the whirling patterns on the table cover as she murmurs, “Of course, Daddy.”

Mr.Rivers leaves the dining room.

16

SHAE

“What are you thinking about, Sweetness?”

His voice cuts through my thoughts, low and warm and way too close to the part of me that wants to moan and curl up beside him.

Several competing ideas rumble through my brain as I try to quiet the most stressful one—that the dinner a few hours ago was an utter disaster. Well, maybe disaster is a little dramatic. Mama took to Storm almost immediately, even before she went all fangirl over his mom.

But Daddy? I don’t think Daddy will ever be a Storm fan.

So when I walked Storm to his car after the kitchen was spotless, I almost leapt into his vehicle when he said he still wanted to spend more time with me tonight.

Anything to avoid the uncomfortable conversation that I’m sure will come once I’m back home.

We’ve swayed at the top of the Ferris wheel for what feels like both a second and an hour. The lights from Navy Pier glint below, casting halos over the crowd. The air up here feels clearer, like it belongs to a different world altogether—one where boys like Storm Sandoval aren’t so dangerous for girls like me.

But here he is, all sharp jaw and warm cologne, staring at me like I’m something to be studied. Like I’mhismystery.

And I…I hate how much I want him to understand me.

“I was thinking about the people indigenous to this land,” I say, my attention still fixed on the ink-dark surface of Lake Michigan. “And what they thought of the lake.”

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