Page 36 of Backstroke

I glare at him, my jaw clenched. “Difficult? You have no idea what difficult is,” I say through gritted teeth. “You’ve blindsided us with this… this betrayal.”

“This is not a betrayal,” he seethes, his face turning red. The intensity of his anger is unmistakable, and it only fuels my own.

“Then what would you call it?” I snap back, unable to contain my frustration. “You’ve been lying to us, keeping secrets. How is that not a betrayal? How long has this been going on?”

Abigail looks between us, her eyes filled with worry. “Please, let’s not do this here,” she pleads softly. “We can talk about this calmly.”

My father’s face is still red with anger, but he takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “This isn’t the place for this discussion,” he agrees, his voice strained but quieter. “We’ll talk about it later, at home.”

I glare at him, my rage still simmering. “Like hell we will. You brought us here. Now, answer the damn question,” I demand, my voice tight.

“Fine,” he answers, his voice low and measured. “We’ve been seeing each other for about six months. We didn’t want to tell you until we were sure it was serious.”

“Six months?” Fallon repeats in shock. “And you didn’t think we deserved to know? How did you even meet?” Gone is the trembling and out comes the fury I’ve come to know from her.

“Benjamin was my divorce lawyer,” she begins, her voice steady, but soft. “Once everything was finalized, we got to talking and realized we had a lot in common.”

The waitress returns with our drinks, her cheerful demeanor a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere at our table. “Here you go,” she says, placing the glasses in front of us. “Are you ready to order?”

“I believe we still need a few more minutes,” my father responds cooly. She nods, then retreats back to where she came.

I take a deep breath, trying to process this new information. “So, you met through your divorce?” I interrogate, my voice laced with disbelief. “And you thought it was a good idea to start a relationship?”

Abigail looks down at her hands, her expression pained. “It wasn’t planned,” she claims quietly. “We just… connected.”

“You mean you connected with his wallet,” I seethe, unable to contain my anger. The words hang in the air, sharp and cutting.

Abigail’s face pales and she looks genuinely hurt by my accusation. “It’s not like that,” she defends, her voice trembling. “I care about him, Remington. This isn’t about money.”

My father’s expression darkens and he leans forward, his eyes locking onto mine. “That’s enough,” he asserts, his voice low and dangerous. “You will not speak to her that way.”

I glare back at him, my anger on the brink of explosion. “Then maybe you should have thought about how this would affect us before you decided to keep it a secret. But you don’t care about anything other than yourself, right?” I laugh. “Since you’ve replaced my mother, does that mean I’ll stop being harassed for killing her?” I snap.

Shocked expressions line everyone’s faces but I don’t give a fuck. He’s no longer the puppeteer in my life.

“How dare you—“ but he doesn’t finish, Abigail intertwines their fingers, causing his words to falter. Yeah, he wouldn’t want to show her his true colors.

Fallon’s eyes are wide as she looks between us, clearly overwhelmed by everything.

“Please,” she whispers, her knuckles turning white from the force of her grasp. “Can we just… talk about this later?”

I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my emotions for her sake. “Fine,” I state, through gritted teeth. “But this conversation isn’t over.”

My father nods, his expression still hard. “Agreed,” he responds. “We’ll discuss this later, in private.”

The waitress returns, sensing the tension, but maintaining her professional demeanor. “Are you ready to order now?” she questions, her voice polite.

“Actually, I no longer have an appetite. Fallon?” I query, turning to her.

Fallon shakes her head, her eyes still glistening with unshed tears. “No, I’m not hungry either,” she agrees.

I turn back to my father and Abigail. “We’re leaving,” I announce, standing up and helping Fallon to her feet.

My father’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t try to stop us.

“I’ll call you later, sweetie,” Abigail calls out to Fallon, but she doesn’t turn as I guide her out of the restaurant. Her warmth radiates through my hand on the small of her back. The cool night air hits us as we step outside and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

I gesture to the valet, making him jump to his feet and dash to get my Jeep. His footsteps echo against the pavement as he dashes to the parking lot.

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