His silence stretches long enough to terrify me.
I count heartbeats. Five. Ten. Twenty. The morning light paints his face in gold and shadow, and I watch him calculating costs I didn't consider when I asked.
"Jake." My voice cracks on his name. "Please say something."
"Your father beat me bloody in my bedroom." The words are measured, careful. "Threatened to destroy everything I'd built. Called me a predator. A rapist." He exhales slowly, something heavy leaving his chest. "And now you want me to stand in his bedroom?"
"I want you with me."
"I know you do." His hands find my shoulders, steadying us both. "But think about this from his side. He's dying. His daughter shows up—that might be okay. His daughter shows up with the man who stole her? The man he explicitly forbade her from seeing?"
"He doesn't get to forbid anything anymore."
"Maybe not." Jake's thumb traces my collarbone, an absent gesture that grounds me. "But stress kills cancer patients faster. You want that on your conscience? Me walking in there might be what pushes him over the edge."
I don't have an answer. The question sits between us, ugly and practical and impossible to argue with.
"What if—" I stop. Start again. "What if seeing us together is the last thing that happens between me and my father? What if I walk in there with you and he dies hating me?"
"That's the risk." His voice is gentle but honest. "I can't promise it won't happen."
The manipulation rises in my throat before I can stop it. Deliberate. Calculated. The kind of move I swore I'd never make with him.
"I won't go without you."
I watch it land. Watch him recognize the tactic for exactly what it is—emotional blackmail wrapped in desperation. Watch something flicker behind his eyes that might be disappointment or understanding or both.
Watch him accept it anyway.
"Okay." The word costs him something visible. "I'll come."
"Jake—"
"Don't." He pulls me closer, his chest solid against my cheek. "Don't apologize for needing me. Just know that I see what you did. And I'm choosing this anyway."
Shame burns through my chest like acid. "I'm sorry. That was—"
"Survival." His lips brush my forehead. "I've loved you through worse. We'll figure this out together."
* * *
Morning brings chaos.
I call my thesis advisor first, explaining through a voice that barely holds steady. She's gracious—tells me research can wait, family can't, take whatever time I need.
Jake handles his ranch, running through feed schedules and medication protocols while I throw clothes into a bag without really seeing what I'm grabbing.
We're in the kitchen drinking coffee that's gone cold when Tommy appears in the doorway, loose-limbed and grinning like someone who got thoroughly lucky last night.
"You're not gonna believe this." He's practically bouncing on his heels. "The feed store girl? We went to that Mexican place in town and she's actually—"
He stops mid-sentence. Reads our faces. The grin dies like someone flipped a switch.
"What happened?"
"My father has cancer." The words come out flat. Practiced already. "Stage IV. We're leaving for New York today."
Tommy's expression shifts from confusion to understanding to something solemn I've never seen on him before. He looks at Jake, then back at me.
"Shit." He runs a hand through his hair. "Boss, go. I've got the ranch."
"Tommy, it could be weeks—"
"I know the rotation. I know the cattle. I know what to do if the north fence gives out again." He's already pulling out his phone. "Just go. Be with her. We'll survive without you."
Jake nods once, tight and grateful. "I'll call every night to check in."
"You'll call when you remember. Focus on Adison." Tommy meets my eyes, something fierce and protective there. "Take care of yourself. And him. He's shit at asking for help."
After that I spend forty-five minutes trying to book commercial flights.
Nothing connects in time. The earliest arrival puts us in New York tomorrow afternoon, and that feels like failure before I've even started.
"Just let’s go to the airport," Jake suggests, watching my frustration mount. "Figure it out from there."
But something else rises in my mind. Something I haven't done long ago.
I pick up my phone and dial my father's office.
"Ward Enterprises, how may I direct your call?"
"Zachary Cooper." My voice sounds strange to my own ears. "Tell him it's Adison Ward."
Silence. Hold music. Then a voice I recognize.
"Miss Ward." His voice sounds warm in a way I didn't expect from anyone in my father's orbit. "Your father told me you might call."
"He told you—" I stop. Process. "He knew I'd come?"
"He hoped." Zachary's tone is careful but genuine. "For what it's worth, he'll be happy to see you. And he has something for you."
Ice floods my veins. "What?"
"I think that's his to explain."
"Zachary—"
"Let me arrange the jet. You'll be in the air within ninety minutes."
He's starting to annoy me. How did he know I would ask him to arrange a flight? But he didn't even let me do it.
My father's damn assistant is as good as ever.
Ninety minutes later, we are waiting for our flight starting on the plane on Ward money.
The leather seats feel like betrayal and homecoming at once. I grip Jake's hand hard enough to hurt as the Texas landscape shrinks below us, becoming small and manageable in ways our problems never will be.
My phone buzzes. Zachary again.
"Everything will be ready when you land, Miss Ward."
"Ready how?" I press, suspicion sharpening my voice. "What exactly has my father prepared?"
"Like I said—he'll tell you himself. Nothing criminal." A pause that might be amusement. "He'll tell you himself."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone like it might rearrange itself into something that makes sense.
"You trust him?" Jake asks quietly.
New York is hours away. My dying father waits with something unexpected. The man who cut me off completely, who threatened to destroy everything I loved, apparently has a gift waiting.
"I don't know." The admission costs me something. "But I'm going anyway."
Jake's hand squeezes mine. Outside the window, clouds stretch toward a horizon I can't see.
"Then we find out together."