Page 114 of My Only

That’s all he said.

“I know what this is about.” I leaned against the table, cue in hand. “And I promise you. What you saw tonight? It’s not what you think.”

He stood at the opposite end of the table, quietly chalking his cue stick as he watched me.

Not blinking. Not reacting.

Just watching.

“I was only there to get Ayla’s dessert,” I continued, my voice firmer now.

“Hmm.” His gaze didn’t waver. “And when you brought the dessert home to your wife?” His accent thickened as he spoke. “And she asked you why you were there and who you were with…?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Would you have left out the fact that you went to her favorite restaurant… with your co-worker?”

My stomach twisted.

Because the answer?

Was obvious.

I hadn’t even thought that far.

“Break,” he said through his teeth.

The single word cut through the air, instructing me to take the first shot.

I licked my lips, stepped forward, and got into position.

Angled the tip of my cue stick.

Steadied my bridge hand, just like he taught me.

Aimed for the apex of the white ball.

Took my shot… and missed everything.

Fuck.

Without a word, my father stepped up next.

Leaning forward, he lined up his shot, barely taking a second to adjust.

Then…

He sank a ball.

Effortlessly.

“You know,” he said casually, still focused on the table, “I like to give people the benefit of the doubt… but you’re making that real damn hard, son.”

I hate losing.

Always have.

It’s something my father actually loved about me.

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