Page 63 of Kisses and Paperclips

His grin was full of pride, lies, and of everything I’d worked so hard to separate myself from.

I said nothing.

Because what was there to say? This wasn’t new. This was just the same tired act, playing out on a bigger stage.

But inside? I was unraveling. Quietly. Quickly.

Because this wasn’t just a drunk man crashing a party. This was my past kicking down the door of the life I’d built. This was my shame with a name, dressed in a too-tight shirt and stolen nostalgia, trying to rewrite a story that had nothing to do with him.

“Serena,” he said again, voice tipping into frustration. “You payin’ attention?”

I was.

Too much.

To the heat in my cheeks. To the silence around us. To the weight of every eye in that room, pressing down on my skin like shame.

And still, I didn’t speak.

Because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

“They not lettin’ me in the party,” he slurred, dragging out every syllable like the truth owed him something. He laughed—loud, sloppy, mean.

I hadn’t seen him in over a year. But of course, this would be the moment he picked to show up. At my event. On my night.

Our night.

I felt my spine straighten, fingers tightening around the stem of my untouched champagne flute. I didn’t drink, but suddenly, I wished I did.

Eyes were on me now. Curious, nosy, waiting-for-the-trainwreck eyes. The kind that made your skin prickle and your shame bloom.

He spotted me and lit up like a spotlight had hit him. “There she is!” he called, voice cracking wide with pride he hadn’t earned. “My baby girl! Built this whole thing from nothin’, just like her old man taught her.”

I stepped forward before the moment could stretch any further. I needed to get him out of there—before he ruined whatever dignity we both had left. I approached quietly, close enough to keep the rest of the room from hearing, close enough to smell the liquor sweating through his pores.

“Dad,” I said, my voice steady but quiet, the way you speak to a child mid-tantrum. “You shouldn’t be here. Go home.”

He grabbed for my hand.

And I flinched.

Not because it hurt—but because it still could.

I pulled back hard, and something flickered across his face. Hurt. Embarrassment. Rage. He staggered for a beat like I’d physically knocked him off balance.

“You get a little money, a little title, and now you think you too good for your own father?” he spat. “Forget who made you?”

“You’re drunk. You need to leave,” I said, voice low and clipped, fighting for calm I didn’t feel.

He leaned in, eyes wild and wet. “Money changed you.”

I looked him dead in the eye. “You would know.”

His mouth opened to respond, but for once, he didn’t have the words.

“What’d you say to me?”

His voice was a growl now—low, tight, bloodshot eyes bulging in their sockets like they might leap from his skull. He reached for me, clumsy and reckless, but I moved too fast, and he slipped right out of security’s grip.

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