Page 115 of My Only

He fostered my competitive nature as a kid.

Fed it. Encouraged its growth.

It’s the reason I even went after the Greene Gardens Project. The reason I dared to negotiate my compensation—and got exactly what I asked for.

Even when I wasn’t sure I could actually get it.

“I don’t like what I saw tonight.”

He didn’t look up as he spoke.

Just studied the table.

“You’re playing a dangerous game with your life, son. You know that?”

I wrinkled my brows. “What are you talking about? How?”

He took his next shot. Sank nothing this time.

Then lifted his eyes to me.

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” I said quickly, my grip tightening on my cue stick. “It’s like I told you, I was just picking up dessert for Ayla.”

The dim lighting.

The old-school billiard tables.

The neon sign near us buzzing softly.

All of it felt so damn heavy now.

Like he wasn’t just preparing for a game... he was preparing to whoop my ass.

Not physically.

But whoop my ass in a way that would stick with me for the rest of my damn life. I could just feel it.

“If I were Ayla’s father,” my dad said finally, voice low, steady, “and I walked into Vernon’s and saw you sitting across from that woman?”

His gaze sharpened.

“The first thing I’d think? Would not be ‘Oh, my son-in-law was just picking up dessert for my daughter.’”

He arched a brow.

“Do you think Ayla would see it that way, Hassani?” He asked. “That you weren’t doing anything wrong?”

“Dad, I was?—”

“Your go.”

The cut-off was swift.

I clenched my jaw.

Shoulders sagging in frustration.

But I did as told.

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