Page 61 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

The word “scandal” echoes in my mind, a harsh reminder of how quickly things can unravel. I'm frozen, caught between indignation and fear, the taste of bile rising in my throat. My hands clench into fists at my sides. Austin remains silent, his face an unreadable mask, his blue eyes cold and distant.

Brielle's triumphant smirk tells me she thinks she's won, but I can't—won't—let her have the last word. Not here. Not now.

It’s not Austin who puts her in her place. It’s Cohen.

"Enough, Brielle," he says, and the room seems to draw in a collective breath. "This isn't your concern."

She bristles visibly at his interference, but Cohen doesn't flinch, doesn't back down. He holds her glare with an unyielding stare, and I find myself momentarily grateful for the barrier he's placed between her venom and me.

Austin remains silent, his expression locked away behind a mask of indifference. It's unsettling, this silence of his—like the calm that comes before a storm. When Brielle finally huffs and storms off, her departure does nothing to lighten the atmosphere; if anything, it feels heavier, loaded with unspoken words and unresolved tensions.

"Lucas," Austin's voice breaks through the silence, sharp and clear, carrying up to the playroom. "Backpack. You're spending time with your mother."

The command hangs in the air, another point of tension, and suddenly I need to escape. Without a word, I turn on my heeland flee the kitchen, my feet carrying me quickly down the hallway, towards the sanctuary of my bedroom.

"Skylar!" Cohen's voice follows me, echoing off the walls, but I don't stop. Not until he throws out a single phrase, heavy with meaning, one that roots me to the spot.

"You mentioned Vegas."

My heart stutters in my chest, and I can't move, can't breathe.

I force a casual shrug, feigning ignorance as I pivot to face Cohen. "Vegas?" I let the word hang between us, playing dumb.

His eyes narrow, a silent plea for honesty that I'm not ready to give. "Itwasyou, wasn't it?" His voice is a mix of frustration and something else—pain, maybe.

He wants to bring this upnow? I should have known letting Theo involve him the other night would only breed chaos. At first, I’d been hurt, angry that he didn’t remember me. But I’d since realized it was a good thing.

It was a drunken weekend. I’d been dressed like a damn sorority girl, my hair dyed an obnoxiously bright pink. I had looked completely different, nothing like myself. But I hadsoundedlike me. I should have knownthat’swhat would finally jog his memory: the sound of me coming apart at the seams with pleasure. He’d certainly heard it enough in Vegas.

I don’t need this on top of everything else. Why now?

"Why didn't you say anything? Why did you let it go on this long? Why did you let me touch you when it was—"

"Because you didn't remember me!" The words erupt from me in a yell, raw and unfiltered. My throat burns with the effort to keep my composure from fracturing completely.

Turning away from his piercing gaze, I continue my retreat toward my room, but he's persistent, following close behind. He reaches out, trying to coax me into facing him, into explaining, but I can't—I won't.

Then, like an omen, Austin's figure fills the doorway, halting us both. His presence—a solid wall of tailored suit and controlled emotion—demands attention. His blue eyes, normally icy, seem ablaze with a fire I've stoked without meaning to.

Austin's gaze skewers me, his posture rigid as he orders Cohen out with a curt nod. "I need to talk to Skylar. Alone." There's an unspoken command there, one that speaks of boardrooms and power struggles.

Cohen hesitates, his expression torn between concern and frustration. His eyes flicker to mine, searching, questioning. I give him nothing, my face a mask of determination. He knows better than to argue with Austin in this mood. With a final, lingering look, Cohen exits, his reluctance clinging to the air like a tangible thing.

Now it's just Austin and me, another silent standoff. "You don’t get to just walk away,” he growls, the roughness in his voice betraying the cool exterior he maintains. It's a challenge, a dare for me to confront whatever is brewing beneath the surface.

I let out a long sigh, feeling the weight of the morning's chaos press down on me. My words are tinted with exasperation as I address him, "What do you want me to do, Austin? I live here. If you'd given us a heads-up about Brielle's visit, I wouldn't have been caught off guard...like this."

I gesture vaguely to my disheveled appearance—the hoodie hanging loose on my frame, the wild tumble of my hair. It's not the way I like to be seen. I value control over my image, over how I present myself to the world. But then again, Austin has a way of disrupting my equilibrium, leaving me flustered and more vulnerable than I care to admit.

“I wouldn’t have let my guard down like…that.”

I gesture vaguely toward the kitchen where I had most definitely let Theo and Cohen sandwich me, no matter how innocently.

Austin's scoff echoes in the room. "Yes, you would have," he says, his blue eyes ice-cold yet burning into me with an intensity I can't evade. He crosses the room, grabbing my arm before I can turn away from him. "This has been your game all along."

"What game?" My voice comes out sharper than intended, but I'm past caring. I jerk my arm free from his grasp, my skin tingling where his fingers lingered. “What do you want me to say, Austin?”

His face is inches from mine, every line of tension on his forehead etched with the need for control. "I want you to admit it," he snaps, the words slicing through the thick tension.

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