Page 117 of Dance of Ruin

“He’s my father, but that doesn’t mean blind loyalty. If he did this…if he hurt people I care about...then blood means nothing.”

Her voice wavers slightly on the wordcare.

I take a step toward her.

“To be clear: I’mnot askingyou to do this,” I murmur.

“I know.”

I stare at her. Trying to memorize this beautiful version of her—the fire in her eyes, the purpose in her stance.

But then she smirks. A little too bitterly and quickly.

“What’s the matter, Nico?” she says with a smirk as she slips past me. “Worried about me? Or just worried I’ll be late for your next little game?”

The joke hits harder than I expect, and for once, I don’t parry.

Instead I whirl, grab her arm, and spin her back to face me. Her breath catches as my hand possessively cups her jaw.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I’m worried about you.”

She blinks. The sarcasm fades. Her mask cracks.

“Well,” she says quietly, “I’ll just have to be careful, then.”

I shake my head. “I don’t like this meeting idea.”

She smiles. “Good thing it’s notyougoing to it.”

Then, without any preamble, she gets up on her tiptoes, leans in, and kisses me.

“I’ll call you after.”

Yeah,not mealready planning to spend the next however many hours staring at my phone, waiting for that fucking call.

25

NAOMI

Atrium,the three-Michelin-star restaurant my father has picked for our “catch up”, is one of those “see and be seen” type places—all glass, obviously, so that the peasants outside on Columbus Circle can witness the grand, glamorous lives of the rich and privileged.

Naturally, Leonard’s booked a window seat.

He’s already there when I arrive—perfect posture, cufflinks gleaming in the early afternoon sun, the New York skyline and Central Park framing him like a campaign ad.

There’s a good chance…I figure, oh, about seventy percent…that someone will be taking pictures of us during this lunchfora campaign ad.

Dad smiles as I approach. Not warmly. Not like a father seeing his daughter for the first time in weeks. Just a poised, practiced smile.

For the cameras.

He stands just long enough to offer me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Then he’s back in his seat, napkin folded across his lap with robotic precision. I’m not blind to the flash of cameras outside on the street, followed by the rapidclick-click-clickof a professional camera somewhere behind us in the restaurant.

Yep, raising those campaign ad photo-op odds toone hundredpercent.

He looks good, I’ll give him that. Every hair in place, shirt collar crisp, watch gleaming. He works out religiously, has done so my entire life. Eats at the same time every day. Sleeps exactly seven hours a night.

Leonard Kim has always treated life like a machine—perfect inputs leading to flawless outcomes. But somewhere along the way, he stopped treating me like part of the equation.

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