Page 120 of Dance of Ruin

Leonard’s eyes flash for a second. Then he exhales and shakes his head, like I’m a child who doesn’t understand how the world works.

“Politics is a dirty business,” he says softly. “You’re old enough now, Naomi, to understand that.” His eyes lance into me. “But I wouldnever—never, in a millionyears—be involved with a group like the Obsidian Syndicate.”

Everything inside me goes still.

I think my pulse actually stops for a beat as reality shifts and tilts.

I never said “obsidian”. Only “syndicate.”

But he did.

It’s like an icy blade sliding between my ribs.

I feel myself go cold, muscles tensing as I try to suppress the shiver rippling down my spine. My fingers tighten in my lap.

Dad doesn’t seem to notice.

His voice softens again.

“I appreciate this thing with Nico might be thrilling or feeldangerous. But don’t let it confuse you or shake you from who you are. Look, I can’t tell you who to date or not date. But if nothing else, think of your damn future! After dance is over, you’ll have a whole other career just waiting for you.”

When my lips purse, he takes it as confusion, even though I knowexactlywhat he’s talking about.

“Can youimaginethe leg up you’ll have, being my daughter? With our last name, power, and connections? You could skip the local stuff and go straight into a national race, Naomi. You could be a congresswoman attwenty-five, for God’s sake. Think of the doors that would open for you!”

My God.

In that moment, I see everything I’ve tried not to admit.

The man sitting across from me isn’t just a politician. Not merely a bad father.

He’s a man wholies so well he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. There is no right or wrong, just the path forward that he’s laid out to meet his own ends and goals.

Slowly, I fold my napkin and place it beside my untouched glass.

Dad is still talking. I’m no longer listening.

He’s gone back to the usual script—political concern, fatherly disappointment, words that sound like care but feel like a lecture. This is a PR rehearsal, not love.

When I stand he finally stops, his brows knitting.

“Naomi,” he says quietly. “Don’t overreact. This doesn’t have to be anything.”

“You’re right,” I say softly. “It doesn’t.”

I turn and walk out of the restaurant without looking back.

Outside, the air hits like ice. I don’t realize how hard I’m shaking until I reach out and press a palm against the cold glass of the building next to the restaurant to ground myself.

It’s not just the lie. It’s the way he said it.

I turn and start to walk aimlessly. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know what I’m walking away from.

I wantedso badlyto believe that the man who used to spin me around in the kitchen and let me fall asleep on his chest during late-night debates was still there.

But he’s gone. Maybe he died with my mother.

He’s not my father anymore.

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