Marcus
The front door opened.
Footsteps. Calm. Unbothered. Confident in that smug, corporate way that made my skin crawl.
My dad walked into the kitchen like he was stepping onto a podium. Looked around at the mess—abandoned red cups, half-eaten pizza slices, someone’s jacket tossed over a chair—and gave a satisfied nod.
“Well,” he said, tossing his keys on the counter. “Looks like the party was a hit.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move.
He didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.
“I caught a few clips online already,” he continued, cracking open a water bottle. “You looked good out there tonight. Clean form, good tempo. You’re finally making headlines, son.”
Still nothing from me.
“I assume she was there?” he added with a smirk. “Branson’s girl?”
My hands clenched.
“She’s not just Branson’s girl,” I said quietly.
He waved it off. “Don’t get all sentimental now. Look, you’ve got this under control. You keep showing up, keep charming the daughter, and Branson’s going to hand you a golden ticket.”
He leaned back against the counter and took another sip. “You’ve played this exactly right so far. Just stay the course.”
That was it. That was all he saw. A playbook. A transaction.
He didn’t know yet.
Not about the message. Not about what he’d done.
“She saw it,” I said, voice low.
He looked at me, confused.
“What?”
“The text.” I felt the words catch in my throat. “Your message popped up during the game. The screen-share. Everyone saw it. She saw it.”
His face froze. Only for a second.
Then he snorted. “Well, shit.”
“That’s all you have to say?” My voice rose. “You called her a fat girl. Like she’s some joke.”
He scoffed. “It was a joke. Between us. Come on, Marcus, don’t act new.”
“She’s not a joke.” My hands were clenched at my sides. “She’s not a project. She’s a person. She’s smart and funny and—god—she’s better than either of us.”
He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, how deep are you in? Don’t tell me you’re falling for her.”
I didn’t answer.
He saw it on my face anyway.
“You are,” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “You’re throwing away your future for some overweight—”
The words didn’t land.
Because I hit him.
Straight across the face, knuckles cracking into his cheekbone.
He staggered backward, nearly falling into the counter. Blood started dripping from his nose. He looked at me like he didn’t recognize the person in front of him.
“Don’t talk about her like that,” I said. “Don’t even say her name.”
His hand covered his nose. “You’re out of your mind.”
“No. I’m done being your mind. Your mouth. Your plan.”
“You think she’s going to want you now?” he snapped. “You think she’ll forgive you?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I’m going to try. I’d rather lose everything and have her hate me than sit by and pretend what you did was okay.”
He wiped the blood off with a kitchen towel, breathing hard.
“I’ll fix this,” I said, turning away. “Not for you. For her.”
“Marcus—”
I didn’t wait for the rest.
I left him there bleeding, furious, alone.
Exactly how he deserved to be.