POV Noelle
Father sits at the granite island, spreading Jif across Wonder Bread with the kind of casual domesticity that would be heartwarming if it wasn't complete bullshit.
He's wearing jeans and a polo shirt instead of his usual three-piece armor, and for a split second, I almost forget that he's been a ghost for the past six months.
Almost forgot that the last time I saw him, he was boarding a private jet to God knows where while I stood in this same kitchen eating cereal for dinner.
"PB&J?" he asks, looking up at me with that smile that used to make everything okay when I was little. "It's your favorite."
"Yeah, when I was ten."
The words come out sharper than intended, but I don't take them back.
Because this whole domestic father routine is exactly the kind of performance that makes me want to scream and throw something expensive at his head.
"Right. You're all grown up now." He sets down the knife and really looks at me for the first time in months. "When did that happen?"
"Probably somewhere between your last three business trips and the time you missed my birthday to close some deal in Dubai."
Dad winces, and I feel a tiny stab of guilt. But only tiny.
Because showing up and making sandwiches doesn't erase months of radio silence and unanswered phone calls. Doesn't erase the fact that I've had more meaningful conversations with my Uber drivers than with my own father.
"So what are you doing here?" I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, mainly to have something to do with my hands that isn't strangling him. "Finally remembered you had a daughter? Or did the oil deal fall through?"
"Noelle—"
"Let me guess. You're between countries. Got a few days to kill before the next international emergency requires your immediate attention."
Dad sighs, and it's the kind of tired sound that makes him look older than his forty-five years. Like maybe all those late-night phone calls and cross-continental flights are finally catching up with him.
"I came to see how my sugar plum is doing."
"Stop calling me that."
"You used to love it when I called you that."
"I used to love a lot of things. Like having a father who knew what grade I was in. Or remembered that I hate peanut butter and jelly because it reminds me of being seven years old and eating alone while you were in fucking Singapore."
The kitchen goes silent except for the hum of expensive appliances that probably cost more than most people's cars.
Dad stares at his half-made sandwich like it holds the secrets to being a decent parent.
"I'm going to be here for a while," he says finally. "The Singapore deal is on hold, and I thought maybe we could spend some time together."
"You always say that." I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. "You always say you're going to be here for a while, and then mysteriously, some crisis emerges that requires your immediate and personal attention."
"This time is different."
"Is it? Because I've heard that exact phrase nineteen times since I turned eighteen. I started keeping count."
Dad's jaw ticks, and for a moment he looks like the ruthless businessman who built an empire on crude oil. The man who can make grown men disappear with a phone call.
Then the mask slips back into place, and he's just my father again. Or his impression of one.
"I deserve that."
"You deserve a lot more than that. You deserve to have missed watching your daughter grow up. You deserve the fact that I don't know how to talk to you anymore because you're basically a stranger who pays my credit card bills."
"Noelle, I know I haven't been—"
"Present? Available? Interested in anything that doesn't involve international shipping routes and offshore accounts?"
"I've been trying to protect you."
"By abandoning me?"
"By keeping you safe." His voice gets harder, more familiar. This is the voice he uses in boardrooms and interrogation rooms. "By keeping you away from the kind of life that gets people killed."
And there it is.
The truth that's been lurking under every conversation we've never had.
"Is that why you assigned me a bodyguard?" I ask, glancing toward the doorway where Owen's probably lurking, pretending he can't hear every word. "Because you think I can't take care of myself?"
"I think you're still too young and you have no idea how dangerous the world actually is."
"I'm not a child."
"You're my child." The words come out fierce, possessive, like he's marking territory. "And I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe."
"Even if it means I hate you?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke from a gun that's already been fired. Dad stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him calculating whether honesty is worth the risk.
Whether the truth is more valuable than the comfortable lies we've been telling ourselves for years.
"Even then," he says quietly.
I want to be angry. Want to yell at him, to tell him that his protection feels like a prison and his love feels like surveillance. But there's something in his voice that stops me.
Something that sounds like fear.
Real fear. Not the calculated wariness of a businessman, but the raw terror of a father who's seen what happens when people like us let their guard down.
"Let's go to dinner tonight," he says suddenly, switching gears like he's changing the subject at a board meeting. "Just the two of us. Like old times."
"We never had old times."
"Then let's make new ones."
I stare at him, this man who gave me life and then disappeared from it, who loves me enough to hire bodyguards but not enough to show up for parent-teacher conferences.
"Fine," I say, because part of me still wants to believe that this time might actually be different. "But I'm picking the restaurant."
"Deal."
Three hours later, I'm standing in front of my mirror wearing a black dress that probably cost more than most people's cars. It's elegant without being overdone, sophisticated without being stuffy.
The kind of dress that says ‘I'm daddy's little girl but I'm also nobody's fool.’
Owen's waiting by the car when I come downstairs, and his eyes do that thing where they sweep over me before he can stop himself.
The look lasts maybe two seconds, but it's enough to make my pulse spike and my brain recall exactly what those eyes looked like when they were watching me coming on his hands.
"You look beautiful," he says, opening the passenger door.
The compliment hits differently than it should. Maybe because it's Owen saying it, or maybe because it's the first genuine thing anyone's said to me all day.
Everything else has been performance and manipulation and carefully constructed emotional distance.
"Thank you."
Dad appears a moment later, also dressed up but somehow still managing to look like he's going to a hostile takeover instead of dinner with his daughter.
Everything's a transaction with him, even family time.
"Ready?" Dad asks.
"As I'll ever be."
Owen slides into the driver's seat, and we pull out of the circular driveway toward the city.
I picked some ridiculously expensive restaurant downtown—the kind of place that has a months-long waiting list and servers who act like they're doing you a personal favor by bringing you overpriced food on pretentious plates.
"So," Dad says as we cruise through traffic, making the kind of small talk that feels like emotional torture, "tell me about college."
"It's college. I go to class, I do homework, I try not to die of boredom in my economics lecture."
"And your friends?"
"I have friends. They're fine. They do friend things."
"Are you seeing anyone?"
I glance at Owen in the rearview mirror, and for a split second, our eyes meet. "Not anymore."
"Good. Boys your age are idiots."
"All boys are idiots, Dad. Age is irrelevant to stupidity."
Dad laughs, and for a moment it feels like we might actually be a normal father and daughter having a normal conversation instead of two people who share DNA and a last name but not much else.
We're stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change, when I hear the sound.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
It takes my brain a second to process what it is.
Then the rear window explodes in a shower of glass, and Owen's yanking the steering wheel hard to the right.
"GET DOWN!"
Dad's voice cuts through the chaos like a blade, and I'm diving toward the floorboard before I even understand what's happening.
The car lurches forward, tires screaming against asphalt, and all I can think is that this is why Dad hired Owen.
This is why he's never home.
This is why he can't just be a normal father making peanut butter sandwiches and asking about my day.
Because normal fathers don't get shot at during dinner dates with their daughters.