Zack's POV
Sleep refuses to come, so I stop pretending it will.
The memory of Ellie plays on repeat behind my closed eyelids—auburn hair tangled in my fingers, brown eyes blazing with defiance, the way her body arched against mine while she made sounds that branded themselves into my consciousness.
I can still feel the weight of her in my arms, the press of her thighs wrapped around my waist, the heat of her center grinding against me through layers of fabric that felt like nothing at all.
The desperate little moan she made when I rolled my hips into hers. The way her pulse hammered beneath my lips when I dragged my mouth down her throat.
I threw back the sheets an hour ago, my body still half-hard from dreams I have no right to be having, and I've been wandering my own house like a ghost haunting rooms I built but never learned to live in.
‘Give me something worth hating you for.’
Her voice echoes through my skull, husky and challenging, and my cock twitches in response like a trained animal.
I remember the softness of her breast filling my palm, the way her nipple hardened against my thumb, the sharp intake of her breath when I traced the waistband of her jeans and felt the heat radiating from beneath.
I wanted to slide my hand lower. Wanted to feel how wet she was for me, wanted to hear what sounds she'd make when I touched her properly.
Wanted to carry her upstairs and spread her across my bed and learn every inch of her body with my mouth until she screamed my name.
You pathetic old perv.
I didn't, I stopped. I set her down and walked away like the honorable man I've spent forty years pretending to be.
And now I'm paying for it.
I ended things with Veronica the day after I kissed Ellie—couldn't stomach the thought of touching another woman when every cell in my body was still vibrating with the memory of Mara's daughter pressed against me.
The kitchen is dark except for the under-cabinet lights Rafael leaves on overnight.
I move through the space without turning anything else on, pulling a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water I don't actually want.
"Mr. McKinney." Mrs. Watts appears in the doorway, her robe cinched tight, her expression carrying the particular blend of concern and resignation she's perfected over fifteen years of employment. "I thought I heard someone moving around down here."
"Couldn't sleep." I set the untouched water on the counter. "You should go back to bed, Margaret."
"As should you." She moves to the refrigerator, pulling out a container I recognize as Rafael's leftover risotto. "But since we're both failing at that particular task, perhaps you'd like something more substantial than tap water."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't been hungry in days." She plates the risotto and slides it into the microwave. "Rafael mentioned you've been skipping meals. He's threatening to quit if you continue insulting his cooking by refusing to eat it."
Despite everything, a small smile tugs at my mouth. "Rafael threatens to quit at least once a month."
"Yes, but he means it this time." The microwave beeps, and she sets the warm plate in front of me. "He says you've been distracted since the girl arrived, and distracted men make poor decisions about things far more important than dinner."
The girl is Ellie. Mara's daughter, sleeping down the hall.
I push the plate away. "Rafael should mind his own business."
"Rafael has been minding this family's business since your boys were in diapers." Mrs. Watts settles into the chair across from me, and I recognize the posture of a woman who isn't leaving until she's said her piece. "You look tired, Zack."
"It's been a complicated few weeks."
"Complicated." She repeats the word like she's tasting it, deciding whether to swallow or spit it out. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
I meet her eyes across the dim kitchen. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Tyler's race is in three days." She says it simply, without accusation. "His first Grand Prix on the most unforgiving track in the world, he told me this himself. And you haven't mentioned it once."
My jaw tightens. "Tyler doesn't need me hovering. He's made that abundantly clear."
"Tyler needs you more than either of you will admit." She reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. "That boy has been chasing your approval since he could walk. Every lap time, every qualifying round, every trophy—he brings them to you first, even when he pretends he doesn't care what you think."
"He has a funny way of showing it."
"He has your way of showing it." Her eyes soften. "All that pride, all that stubbornness. He got it from you, Zack. The good parts and the difficult ones."
I stare at the cold risotto, unable to meet her gaze. "I don't know how to reach him anymore. Every conversation turns into a battlefield."
"Then stop trying to win." She squeezes my hand before releasing it. "You're a good father. Imperfect, yes—but good." She stands, smoothing her robe. "Eat your risotto. And get some sleep. You look like hell."
She disappears back toward the staff quarters, leaving me alone with her words echoing in the silence.
I abandon the plate and climb the stairs, my footsteps silent on the marble. The house feels different at this hour—larger somehow, full of shadows that move just beyond my peripheral vision.
I'm halfway down the west corridor when movement stops me dead.
Tyler emerges from Ellie's door.
He's shirtless, his hair disheveled, his body language carrying the unmistakable looseness of a man who just left someone's bed.
He pulls the door closed behind him with a gentleness that makes my stomach turn—careful, almost tender, as if he cares about waking her.
Then he turns toward his own wing and sees me.
We stare at each other across the moonlit hallway. Tyler's chin lifts in challenge, his jaw tightening in that particular way he inherited from his mother.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, knuckles aching with the effort of keeping them there. Neither of us speaks.
The silence stretches between us, thick with accusations I have no right to make, justifications neither of us would believe, the absurd hypocrisy of my jealousy when I've done the same thing.
Tyler's smirk appears slowly, deliberately—that infuriating expression he's weaponized since childhood. "Problem, Dad?"
"Go to your room." My voice comes out low, dangerous, barely controlled.
"I'm twenty-two." He spreads his arms, gesturing at the hallway, at the house, at the entire situation. "I'll go where I want."
We hold the standoff for another long moment. His pale eyes search my face, looking for weakness, for any crack in the composure I'm barely maintaining.
The satisfaction in his expression tells me he's found exactly what he's looking for.
Then he shrugs—a single, dismissive gesture that somehow captures everything contemptuous about our entire relationship—and turns away.
He walks toward his wing with deliberate slowness, each step a provocation, each second of his retreat designed to remind me that he's won something tonight and we both know it.
I watch him disappear around the corner.
The hallway feels colder in his absence, the moonlight harsher, the silence more complete.
And somewhere behind that closed door, Ellie sleeps in sheets that smell like my son, dreaming dreams I have no right to share.
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