Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

MARIGOLD

T he cab ride from the tiny airport to my dad's house was mostly silent, with Zayn staring out the window at the flat, barren landscape that stretched endlessly on all sides. He looked as out of place here as a flamingo in the snow, his designer clothes and polished shoes a stark contrast to the dusty, worn-out scenery.

I couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind. Was he regretting this trip? Was he thinking about how he could have been anywhere else but Green River, Wyoming? A place that could fit into one of his family's estates without anyone even noticing?

As we turned onto my old street, a wave of nostalgia hit me hard. Everything looked the same, yet somehow more tired, more faded. The abandoned bicycles at the end of a driveway were a reminder of how long it had been since kids played here. The houses were all the same too, small, weathered, with peeling paint and overgrown yards. Old cars were parked on the street. I knew some of them had not moved in years.

And then there was my house.

The same one I had left behind all those years ago, when I'd packed up my life and headed to New York City with big dreams and even bigger naivety. The house had seen better days. The once-white paint was now more gray than anything, the bushes in the front yard had grown wild and unruly. The grass was moving into its dormant stage. At least there was an excuse for the dead look. But the sight of the weathered rocking chairs on the porch, where Dad and I used to sit and watch the world go by, brought a lump to my throat.

Zayn seemed to sense my unease. "It's not that bad," he said, but his eyes told another story. I could see it in the way they darted from the peeling paint to the chipping windowsills, his mind probably making notes of all that needed fixing.

He was a billionaire. He grew up rich. This was like him landing in a third-world country.

As soon as I got out of the cab, the front door swung open, and there he was. My dad, Jay Reed, beer-belly first, big grin second, wearing the same plaid shirt he always wore, now more faded and threadbare. He walked out with the same swagger, his arms wide open as if he could engulf the world in one of his bear hugs.

"Marigold!" he shouted, his voice booming across the quiet street as he wrapped me in a hug that made me feel like I was a little girl again. He smelled like onions, and I knew he'd probably been in the kitchen all afternoon, cooking up something delicious. His hugs were always the same, warm and comforting, like home.

"Hey, Daddy," I said, my voice muffled against his chest as I hugged him back, taking in the smell, the feel, the familiarity of it all. It had been too long.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his smile never wavering as he glanced over my shoulder at Zayn. "And you must be the city boy," he said, his voice filled with a teasing edge as he reached out to shake Zayn's hand.

Zayn, to his credit, took it with a firm grip, though I could see the surprise in his eyes at my dad's enthusiasm. "Zayn Bancroft," he said a bit stiffly, but I could see he was trying.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Zayn," my dad said, clapping Zayn on the back with enough force to almost knock the wind out of him. "Let me get your bags."

"I'll get it, Mr. Reed," Zayn said.

My dad had already grabbed our suitcases, effortlessly lifting them out of the cab's trunk and leading us toward the house. I followed, my eyes wandering over the familiar porch and the faded welcome mat that had been there since I was a kid.

Inside, the smell of cooking hit me full force. My stomach growled in response. My dad had always been the cook in the family. My mom? Well, she tried, but let's just say she had other talents.

The house itself hadn't changed much, either. The same worn furniture, the same pictures on the walls, the same cozy clutter that somehow made the place feel like a home rather than just a house.

"You guys can take your old room," Dad said.

"Thanks, Dad," I said. "This way, Zayn."

The walls were still painted a soft lavender, the color my mom and I had chosen when I was ten. The bedspread was different—simple and neutral, not the bright, floral one I remembered.

I caught Zayn's eyes wandering around the room, taking it all in, trying to make sense of the world I'd grown up in. "It's quaint," he said finally.

I couldn't help but smile at his choice of words. "It's home," I replied.

We dropped our bags, and after a quick freshen-up, we headed back outside to the backyard, where my dad had set up the old picnic table. It was a warm day. The smell of sizzling meat filled the air, making my mouth water. Dad was at the grill, flipping burgers and sausages, while Zayn and I grabbed cold drinks from the cooler.

"So, Zayn, what do you do for work?" Dad asked, flipping a burger.

It all looked very casual and friendly, but it was a soft interrogation.

Zayn hesitated, probably trying to figure out the simplest way to explain his multi-million-dollar corporate empire without sounding too full of himself. "I'm in finance," he said finally.

Dad chuckled. "Finance, huh? That's a fancy way of saying you've got more money than God, isn't it?"

Zayn looked a bit taken aback, but he quickly recovered. "Something like that."

"And your family? Big, small?" Dad pressed on, still focused on the grill.

"Big. Very big," Zayn replied, and I could see the tension in his shoulders. I knew Zayn wasn't used to this kind of casual conversation, this kind of openness. His world was all about polished presentations and business deals, not backyard barbecues and cold beers.

Dad nodded, as if that explained everything. "And how did you two meet?" he asked, finally turning around to face us, a spatula in one hand, a beer in the other.

"We met while traveling," Zayn said smoothly, the rehearsed lie rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.

"Uh huh," Dad said, eyeing us both, clearly not buying it, but he let it slide. For now.

We chatted idly while the food cooked, and it felt surprisingly nice. Normal, even. Zayn was polite and answered Dad's questions with just enough detail to satisfy him without revealing too much. I could see my dad warming up to him, even if he still seemed a bit skeptical.

When dinner was finally ready, we all sat down at the old picnic table, the plates piled high with burgers, sausages, and all the fixings. It felt like every summer evening I'd ever spent here.

"So, Zayn, did you say your last name was Bancroft?"

"Yes," Zayn answered.

The atmosphere shifted in an instant. My dad froze, a fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes flicking to mine, then back to Zayn's. I braced myself, knowing what was coming.

"As in the Bancrofts?"

I nodded slowly, feeling my stomach twist into knots. For a moment, my dad just stared at us, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. Then, to my surprise, he started laughing. A deep, hearty laugh that shook his whole body.

"What's so funny?" I asked, my voice more defensive than I intended.

Dad composed himself, shaking his head. "I just… I just can't wrap my head around it. What would a Bancroft want with a simple girl from Green River? This doesn't make sense, Marigold. An abrupt engagement, all the secrecy, and now this?"

His laughter faded, and he looked me dead in the eye, all humor gone from his face. "Be real with me, Marigold. What is this really about?"

I swallowed hard. I couldn't lie to him, not to his face. Not after everything he'd done for me, after all the years he'd been there, steady and unwavering, my rock.

"It's complicated," I started, my voice shaky. "It's not… it's not what it looks like."

Zayn slumped in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to ease the tension building there. I knew what he was thinking. It hadn't taken me long to break the one rule we'd agreed on. The one rule that could potentially ruin everything.

"Complicated how?" Dad pressed, his eyes never leaving mine.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze. I just couldn't lie to him. "It's a business arrangement, Daddy. A contract. Zayn needs to be engaged for… reasons. And I need the money."

Dad's face darkened, his jaw tightening as he absorbed my words. He turned to Zayn, his eyes cold and hard. "So, what? You're taking advantage of my daughter? Using her for some kind of corporate scheme?"

"No, sir," Zayn said quickly, his voice calm but firm. "I'm not taking advantage of her. This is her choice. And I swear, I'll treat her with the utmost respect. Sham engagement or not."

Dad shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. "This isn't like you, Marigold. You've always been so independent, so strong. You don't need this. You don't need his money."

"I do," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "You don't understand, Daddy. This is my chance to change my life. To finally have something more."

He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine for something—anything—that would make this make sense to him.

Finally, he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "If this is what you want, then so be it. But I'll be here when it all falls apart. And you," he added, turning to Zayn. "You'd better treat her like the princess she is. If you don't, you'll have me to answer to. And us simple folk from Green River? We settle things face to face. Not in offices behind our lawyers. We don't do contracts and bullshit."

Zayn nodded solemnly, his expression serious. "I understand, sir. And I promise, I'll be a perfect gentleman."

Dad didn't say anything more, just nodded once firmly, before turning back to his plate.

After dinner, we helped clear the table, the silence between us thick and heavy. I could feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface, unspoken words hanging in the air, waiting to be addressed.

When the dishes were done and the kitchen was clean, my dad turned to me, his eyes softening as he pulled me into another hug. "I just want what's best for you, Marigold. Always have, always will."

"I know, Daddy," I whispered, hugging him back tightly. "I just need to do this."

He pulled back, looking at me with a mix of pride and concern. "Just don't lose yourself along the way, okay? Remember who you are, where you come from."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat as I tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. "I won't. I promise."

He kissed my forehead, his hand lingering on my cheek for a moment.

"Zayn will sleep on the couch. You're not married. You're not engaged to be married. He can sleep on the couch." I smiled, expecting nothing less from my father. "I understand ."