Forty

Ishould have some shame, but I don't give a fuck anymore. We'd only been back in the District for five hours before Frank sent me an urgent text, telling me he needed me at Cavendish Waits. If I have to trek into the office in the middle of the night on a Sunday, it's going to be on my terms.

My phone is set up to the side of my laptop on this stand my assistant got me for the holidays last year. It's great. It holds it up at the perfect angle, making it easy for me to glance at it when I'm working. Comes in handy all the time—like now, for example, when my girlfriend is fucking herself with a glass dildo on a livestream.

When I got here, Frank was in Bradford Waits' office and told me to work while he wrapped. Fuck that. My hands hover over my keyboard, no intention of typing another word tonight. I'm laser-focused on Valeria, who looks ethereal in black—a color she's never worn on her streams before. She was nervous about it, still getting used to changing her content, but I think it's a smart call. The sheer bodysuit complements her dark eyes, giving that air of sexy meets mysterious that I love about her.

I love that about her.

I do love that about her.

…I think I love a lot of things about her.

Like, I love how she's bad as fuck but doesn't feel the need to rub it in anyone's face or constantly remind them; she just is. I love how she's game for anything but isn't just here to fulfill my fantasies like I'm a paying customer; she tells me what she wants and isn't embarrassed or apologetic. I love that she loves her regulars and knows a few of them really do need her. I love how she can hang with Dalton and Everett, and also understands my loyalty to them is unwavering. I love that she has never once made fun of my Spanish and never gatekeeps her culture. I love her hair. I love her confidence. I love how she hates lawyers (as she should) but doesn't hate the law. I love how she respects a solid scheme—because that's my shit.

I love a thousand things about her. Not like, love.

And last but absolutely not least, I love the black eye she gave Frank—the black eye staring at me from the door to my office.

"Hey, Lan, thanks for coming in," he says, raising his chin. There's a halo of concealer around his eye, but I know the bruise is still there. Hope it still fucking hurts.

I sigh, letting him see how tedious this is to me. "You call, I come running. It's how this has always gone."

His eyebrow notches higher. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

Frank chuckles. "Nothing? Come on. You don't have to put on airs with me, son."

That's the thing to break me. Son.

"I'm not your fucking son," I snap.

His expression darkens immediately. "Excuse me?"

I should stop. Valeria told me to let it go. I agreed to let it go. I'm supposed to be slick about this, like I always am.

Thing is, when it comes to Valeria, I've always been a different version of myself.

I like this version more.

"You're not my father," I intone, glaring. "Let's be clear: Fathers don't assault their sons' girlfriends."

He has the nerve to play ignorant. "What are you—"

"You don't have to put on airs with me, Frank. I know what you did and I'll never forgive you. So, know this: If you ever lay a finger on Valeria again, I'll take everything you love. Everything. Alyssa, Dalton, this fucking firm. I'll take everything."

Faster than I'd ever expect, he storms forward and gets in my face, trying to be big. "Are you out of your mind?"

"You might be," I reply, refusing to cower. "For the last week, I've wanted to throw my goddamn brain out because I can't make sense of it. Why the hell did you do it? You have it all. A wife, a son, a firm with your name on it. Why would you try to hurt the one good thing in my life? Do you want her that bad?"

His spine straightens and he backs away, but not by much. He's still in my proximity, his eyes on my face. "You don't get it, Lander."

"Then fucking explain it, Frank."

He inhales through his nostrils, audible and harsh. The exhale that follows sounds laborious. "I don't want her, although I admit she's something special. A pair of real tits like that…my god. Good for you, Lander."

I inhale sharply, but before I can deliver the hatred simmering on the tip of my tongue, he reaches into his pocket and slams something down onto my desk. I recognize it immediately.

"I got two things when your father died. This watch and you. That watch is a Rolex Day-Date. Fucking priceless. For thirteen years, I protected it, maintained it, took it to the best horologists in the District, all so I could give it to you when you inevitably got Stafford." He raises his shoulders. "I had it all, but she tried to take you. I wasn't going to allow it."

My father wore that Rolex every single day of his life. My eyes linger on it before I look up at Frank. "Don't compare me to my dead father's watch," I murmur, shaking my head in disgust. "You care about me? Then let me be with the woman I love."

The woman I love.

I don't wait for his response. Without another word, I grab my phone and my laptop and brush by him, leaving.

He doesn't follow me.