Page 115 of The Pucking Date
Not strategy. Not protecting our assets. Not identifying threats. Just making sure the boys look pretty for the cameras.
Every muscle is screaming to flip his desk, to tell him exactly where he can shove his institutional relationships. Instead, I gather my tablet and meet his eyes with a smile that could cut glass.
“Of course,” I say, voice sweet as arsenic. “I’ll make sure everyone looks perfect.”
“Good,” he dismisses me, already turning to his computer. The click of his keyboard is deliberate, I’m already forgotten, already furniture.
The word lights a fuse in my chest, burning slow and inevitable toward detonation. I walk out of his office with measured steps. Professional and composed. The perfect fucking lady.
The elevator doors close, and I finally let myself breathe. My hands shake as I hit the button for my floor. Not from fear. From rage so pure it feels like clarity.
Old money protecting old money. Boys protecting boys. The same circle jerk that’s run this city since before I was born.
Chad tries to destroy Finn over a bruised ego, and Rothschild’s response? Boys will be boys. We can’t upset the country club.
The elevator dings. I step out, heels clicking against marble like a countdown.
Fuck this.
I stride past Joy’s desk, ignoring whatever she’s trying to tell me, and push into my office. I need five minutes. Just five minutes to pull myself together.
My office door clicks shut behind me.
Standing in front of my window, arms crossed, posture stiff, is the one man I don’t want to deal with right now.
“Dad?” My voice is flat. Not confused. Not welcoming. Just done. “What can I do for you?”
He turns, and I already know from his expression this isn’t a social visit. His gaze is sharp, jaw tight. Whatever Rothschild didn’t manage to break, this look tries to finish.
“We need to talk.” His words are thunder and judgment, already halfway to shouting.
“Not now.” I move toward my desk, calm and cutting. “Book a time. Or wait for Sunday dinner.”
He ignores that.
“Wai Po called the house this morning asking about her great-grandchildren.”
My stomach drops.
“Plural. Jessica.” His voice cracks. “Twins?”
The room tilts. I don’t answer. Just slide my tablet onto the desk like this is a regular fucking workday.
“This is how I find out?” His voice spikes, red coloring his cheeks. He folds his arms like he’s conducting a goddamn disciplinary hearing. “When were you planning on telling me? They’re O’Reilly’s, aren’t they? The one player I specifically warned you about.”
The heat that’s been building since my meeting with Rothschild detonates, igniting all the fury, all the pressure, all the bullshit I’ve swallowed for too long.
“You’re kidding me.” I spin on him, full force. “You barge into my office, uninvited, and demand an update on the state of my uterus? Are you hearing yourself?”
My voice is steel. My hands land on my hips, my spine straightening until I’m eye-level with him. He still has inches on me, but I don’t give a damn.
“I was going to tell you when I was ready,” I bite out. “Not when it was convenient for you. And yes, it’s Finn’s. And no, it’s none of your business.”
“You don’t tell your own family?—”
“I’m not reporting to a committee,” I snap. “This isn’t a team strategy meeting. This is my body. My life. I found out a few weeks ago, and I’ve been processing it on my own terms. Because that’s what grown women do. We don’t need clearance from our fathers to make decisions about our pregnancies.”
He flushes redder. “You’re my daughter?—”
