Page 92 of One Last Encore

"They do, among other things," Ingrid replied, her tone edged with irritation.

Charles chuckled, swirling his wine. "Do they also offer puppeteering? Competitive knitting?

Beck opened his mouth, fully prepared to launch into an impassioned defense of Juilliard’s very real and very elite percussion program, but before he could, Ingrid inhaled sharply and pushed back her chair.

"Father, may I speak to you privately?" she said tightly, every syllable drenched in barely contained anger.

"Of course," Charles replied smoothly, standing to follow her out of the room like this was some kind of formal hearing.

As soon as they disappeared, Anika turned to Beck with an apologetic smile. "I must apologize for my husband," she said gently. "Charles is extremely protective of Ingrid. You’re the first man she’s brought home, so I think he’s panicking a bit."

Beck blinked. The first? That definitely caught his attention. He guessed he should’ve figured, given her dismal dating history. He'd never brought anyone home either, and it wasn't just because his family was a complete mess. It was because he had never met anyone worth introducing to them. If his family were more... normal, he would have liked to bring her to meet them.

Anika stood gracefully. "Pardon me while I get the hors d’oeuvres," she added, disappearing toward the kitchen.

And just like that, Beck was alone. With only the vast collection of overpriced wine, Charles’s silent judgment lingering in the air, and the very loud argument coming from the other room.

He tried to focus on literally anything else, but it was impossible not.

“Seriously, Ingrid, where did you find that guy?” Charles’s voice was low, disapproving.

A dive bar, but thanks for asking, Charles. Your daughter practically tackled me over her best friend’s amplifier. Real meet-cute stuff.

“You don’t even know him! He’s amazing, and he treats me right. Isn’t that what you want?” Ingrid snapped back.

That’s right, Baby. Say it louder for the judgmental dads in the back.

“Of course, but a boy like that won’t be able to provide for you,” Charles retorted. “You’ll struggle your whole life.”

Oh, awesome. Glad we’re broadcasting that in full surround sound.

"You don’t know that," Ingrid shot back. "I don’t need much to be happy."

"Ingrid, you grew up in luxury. You have no idea what a life like that would be. I’ve worked hard to give you stability."

"I appreciate everything you’ve done," Ingrid said, her voice unwavering. "But I care about Beck. Either you respect him, or we leave."

Beck straightened in his chair. Damn. She meant that. He hadn’t expected her to draw that line in the sand, but now that she had, he couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. She wasn’t just defending him; she was defendingthem. And it made him feel more connected to her than ever before.

A heavy silence followed before Charles finally muttered, "Fine."

And then, finally, they walked back in.

Beck had to fight the urge to wince. The tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a steak knife.

"So," Charles said stiffly as he sat down, his smile so forced it looked painful. "I understand you’re in a band?" Beck felt a knot tighten in his stomach.Jesus, this is a nightmare.

After an hour and a half of awkward small talk, mostly about Charles’ exclusive vineyard in Napa and his timeshare in St. Barts, Beck was drowning. The luxury and privilege surrounding Ingrid’s family felt like an entirely different planet, one where the air smelled like old money and people used "summer" as a verb.

To make matters worse, Ingrid’s father had clearly taken up passive-aggressive hostility as a personal hobby. Every thinly veiled dig felt like a verbal kidney punch.So, Beck, what exactly do you do? Is it… lucrative?

He tried to shrug it off, but the truth was, it stung. He didn’t have a trust fund, a vacation home, or even a consistent grocery budget. That forty-dollar bottle of wine he’d brought as a peace offering had probably sent his checking account into the red. He’d either have to walk home or jump the subway turnstile.

As they stepped out of the ridiculously fancy lobby, Ingrid’s grip on his arm tightened, as if she was afraid he might make a run for it.

"I’m really sorry," she said, her voice heavy with regret. "I didn’t think he’d act like that. He’s not usually this bad, I swear. I think he was just caught off guard that I actually brought someone home. Still, that’s no excuse."

Beck exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s fine. I get it. I don’t exactly scream 'trust fund'." He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "He probably wants you with someone who can whisk you off to St. Barts at a moment’s notice."

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