I press two fingers to the space between my brows, trying to ease the headache building there, while my other hand tightens around the steering wheel.

I'm not sure what that dinner was, but it wasn't what I was expecting.

I can't shake the image of Maisie's face when I held up that photo—the one of her dad and Bridget. I don't think I've ever even seen a picture of Maisie and her father together, let alone one from her birthday. And, Jesus, the way her expression fell right before she forced that smile after Evelyn mentioned that Richard wasn't going to show up—that flicker of disappointment before she hid it, locked it up again.

Why didn't she tell me? That her dad didn't show up last year? That they didn't have lunch after like Evelyn mentioned? I know for a fact they didn't—she would've told me. That she hasn't seen him in... what, two, three years now?

Does she not trust me? Is she embarrassed? Does she think she can't tell me when her world is falling apart? I know it's always been hard for her to talk about her mom's death, and anything about her dad is even worse—but this feels like something I should've known. After a decade of knowing Maisie, how am I just now finding this out?

"Will you just say whatever it is you're brooding over?" Maisie cuts through my thoughts. I peek over at her. She's staring out the window, watching Starbucks and outlet malls blur by.

We've been driving for over an hour and a half, abandoning any attempt at conversation after the first five minutes. I wasn't sure if she wanted to talk about it, and, to be honest, I've been too grumpy and frustrated, trying to backtrack—trying to piece together everything she's told me about him, all the things her dad has said to her.

It's always been fragments—little truths here and there. I remember that year she signed with Andrea as her manager. She was driving home from their dinner, and I'd asked what her dad thought about her decision to record an album. He was her only parent—his opinion should've meant something.

He didn't say anything? I had pressed, confused. He had no opinion on the matter? That seems a little strange, Maisie, he's your—

He laughed, August, okay? He laughed and then walked out of the room, she bit out. There had been a long pause, like she hadn't meant to let it slip, and then regretted it. Look, it doesn't matter, anyway. I already signed the contract.

I've had my theories—that maybe he was just a shitty, absent father who prioritized work over her. But this? This wasn't one of them. And I'm beginning to realize this is just who he is—a dismissive, narcissistic piece of shit.

So of course, I'm brooding over it. I've got a lot I want to say, a lot I'm swallowing down, a lot I'm fucking barely hanging onto at this moment.

"I'm not brooding over anything," I lie, trying to relax my grip on the steering wheel, my thumb tracing the curve as I force my hands to loosen.

"Yes, you were." She sighs, resting her head against the seat before turning slightly to look at me. Her hair falls over her shoulders in perfect curls, and her eyes—deep, almost glossy blue, like she's barely holding it together. She's so beautiful, my heart gives a single, painful thud that lands square in my chest. "You've been stewing since we left. I can practically hear your thoughts from here."

​​"I was just thinking we should stop for food," I deflect, dragging a hand through my hair before flicking the turn signal, weaving around a semi. "You barely ate anything. Just that half a slice of pie."

"Will you just tell me whatever it is you're thinking?"

"I think we passed a Friendly's two exits back," I say, glancing at the rearview mirror like the sign I saw a mile ago is still there. "Or I could pull into a McDonald's up ahead—I know you love an Oreo McFlurry."

"August, just say what you're thinking."

I pull at my collar before unbuttoning the top button of my soft-knit polo, shaking my head as I swallow down the words. "It's nothing."

"August." She sounds annoyed now.

"Okay, fine." If she wants to talk about it, okay, fine. Let's talk about it. My grip tightens on the steering wheel, and I sit up a little straighter in my seat. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"About your dad. About what happened last year. That he didn't show up to dinner. You told me everything went well."

"It did go well."

"He didn't show up," I counter.

"Semantics," she mumbles, looking back out her window.

My jaw clenches. The level of forced indifference on her face driving me fucking insane. Why isn't she taking this seriously? What else is she hiding in that head of hers? What else has she shoved so deep down that even I can't see it?

I'm so tired of this front she puts on—the forced smiles, the agreeable answers, the way she smooths over everything like it's all fine when it's clearly not. I want her to get upset, to get angry, to lose it just a little bit.

"Do you not trust me?" I find myself asking before I can stop.

"What?" Her head snaps toward me. "Of course I trust you."

I shake my head once. "I don't know if you do."

"Why would you say that?" she shoots back, a little line of frustration creasing between her brows. "I do too trust you."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" I press. "You never do—especially when things get complicated and messy. You always shut me out."

She turns in her seat, the seatbelt catching on her shoulder, crossing her arms across her chest. "That's not true at all. I tell you almost everything. When I wanted to leave halfway through the Grammys because I was too nervous, you were the one I called. You helped me when things were falling apart at the Vogue shoot last week. And I call you after every single one of my dad's dinners. I always tell you how it went."

"You never actually tell me about it, though. It's always, it was fine, or we had steak, or we talked about the weather in Maine." I glance at her, then back at the road. "And how the hell do they not know you're allergic to shellfish? That seems like something they should know."

She sighs, leaning back into her seat. "It's not a big deal, August."

Bullshit, I want to yell. It is a big deal. I know when Maisie's upset—the way her face shifts, how she stares off into space, her shoulders slumping. She showed up tonight, even with her full schedule, expecting her dad to be there. And he wasn't. If it didn't matter to her, if it wasn't a big deal, she'd still be in LA right now. She wouldn't have even bothered to come. So yes, it's a fucking big deal. She was hurt, and now she's trying to hide it.

And I don't like it when Maisie is hurt.

"I don't get why you're so worked up over this," she adds after a second.

"You don't get why I'm worked up?" I ask incredulously, pointing at my chest.

"Yes, just let it go."

"I'm worked up because he doesn't care about you, Maisie," I blurt out, instantly regretting it. I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, forcing myself to calm down before looking back at the road.

Sure, I meant what I said. I just didn't mean to say it out loud.

"I'm sorry, that came out wrong." I shift in my seat, resting my elbow on the window ledge. "What I meant is, he doesn't deserve you, Mace. And it kills me that you shrink yourself for him, all for a couple of hours once a year. You shouldn't even be going to these dinners—he doesn't deserve that from you."

What Dr. Richard Thomas really deserves is for my fist to meet his eye socket and to rot in a ditch somewhere.

I glance over at her again, but she's back to staring out the window, and when her eyes stay fixed on the last of the orange and pink hues of the sun sinking below the horizon, I add, "I don't understand why you keep wanting to go to these stupid dinners when he doesn't even be bothered to show up."

"Because he's my father," she murmurs. "And he invited me."

"I know he is, but why is it so important for you to keep going?"

"Because he's my father, August," she grinds out.

"A father who didn't show up. He never shows up for you—"

"God, August," she snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. "Don't you think I know that? That he hasn't shown up for most of my life? That he prefers Bridget over his own daughter? That I've never once fit into his perfect little world? That somehow, I'm an embarrassment to his affluent family of doctors because I wasn't supposed to happen? That I was a massive mistake on his part, and he's been trying to forget it ever since, even after spending my whole life trying to be someone he'd want—forcing myself to like biology for half of high school, convincing myself I loved it, hoping he'd notice me if I liked the same things he did."

She sucks in a shaky breath, her voice wobbly now. "I am a disappointment to my father, and I know he doesn't care about me. I know that. But I don't have anyone else. I am alone. I don't have my mom. I don't have sisters like you or an extended family. You can't expect me to just give that up when he's the only family I have left on this earth, August. So excuse me for caring."

Her words crack straight through me, and I blink over at her. The last light is fading, but there's still just enough to catch the way she draws in a deep breath, pressing her hand to the center of her chest. It's the simple honesty of her words, I think, that hits me hardest. It's the I'm a disappointment, and I am alone that has my grip tightening on the steering wheel.

Thousands of people watch her, obsess over her music, her talent—she's the furthest thing from a disappointment. And I'm fucking furious that her dad has made her feel this way.

I don't say anything, giving her the privacy of my silent attention as I flick the turn signal to exit into downtown Boston. We're almost back to her apartment now, the streetlights casting a soft glow as darkness starts curling around us. Part of me wishes I could drive slower, stretch out these last few minutes. After everything tonight, leaving her is the last thing I want.

"You're not a disappointment, Maisie. You're the last thing from it," I say softly, after a long stretch of silence. I rub the spot above my eyebrow, feeling the tension knotted in my shoulders. "And you're not alone. You have Bridget—"

"She's not my sister," she says quickly.

I glance over at her. I get it now—why Maisie's never really warmed up to Bridget. That it probably feels like she took her father away, filling a spot that was supposed to be Maisie's. But Bridget's only ever been kind to her, always reaching out, always trying to bridge the gap, despite Maisie insisting otherwise. If anything, it seems like she's been trying to be her sister all along—step or not.

That's clearly not a topic for today.

"You have Andrea, Rachel, Ryan," I say, and even though it kills me to admit it, I add, "and Morgan."

"I pay them, August. I have them—they stay—because I pay them to."

I take a steadying breath. "You have me."

She sighs, sinking deeper into her seat, and there's suddenly a twinge in my chest—a pinch of doubt that settles right under my ribs. I'm quickly reminded of what Gwen's sister said to me in my office just the other day. Maybe I'm not enough. Maybe I'll never be enough for her, and these last few weeks, I've just let myself believe she wanted something more from me.

I thrust my hand through my hair, tugging lightly at the ends in frustration. "You come to my family's for every birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas—they love having you, Maisie. They always have. Is that not enough?"

She presses her lips together, staring down at her hands. "Of course, it's enough. I love your family."

I pause, glancing over at her. "Then I don't get it. I don't understand why it matters so much for you to see your dad. You're too good for him. You're one of the most talented people I've ever met—and for god's sake, you're a fucking celebrity, Maisie. You're brilliant, beautiful, and kind to everyone around you. He doesn't deserve your attention. Your dad doesn't deserve you." I reach for her hand, twisting our fingers together. "And you'll always have me, Maisie. For as long as you want me, I'm yours."

She turns toward me, resting her head against the seat, and I rub a thumb along her knuckles. When I stop at a light, I catch her studying me, biting her lip, eyes soft.

The car is silent except for the hum of traffic passing by when she says quietly, "Thank you. Thank you for coming with me. I know I told you I didn't want you there, but... it was nice having someone with me. Having you there with me."

Her words catch me off guard, and I sit up a little straighter, stealing a quick glance before the light changes. There's still a trace of sadness in her eyes, and all I want is to pull over, hold her, kiss it all away. But I'm not sure that's the right move right now. I don't want to push, don't want to assume that's what she needs for me—or risk making her feel like I'm taking advantage of the moment.

My eyes settle back on the road. "You don't have to thank me for that. I'd go with you every year if you wanted me to."

She squeezes my hand, a silent I'd like that.

I turn onto her street and blink, leaning forward slightly as I catch sight of the crowd gathered outside her building—paparazzi. They seem to multiply every time we see them, the swarm only growing larger as Maisie's tour inches closer.

"Shit," Maisie mutters, sinking down in her seat, but it's too late. They've already recognized Maisie's Mercedes, cameras flashing wildly as they move toward us. "I swear they always show up at the worst possible times."

"You want me to see if I can drop you off around back?" I ask, slowing down as the swarm of thirty or so paparazzi begins closing in.

"Can I just—" She squeezes her eyes shut for a second, shielding her face with her hand as she turns to me and says quickly, "I know you drove me all the way home, but do you think maybe I could just stay at your place tonight? I don't want to deal with them right now."

I shift in my seat, swallowing once, twice, three times. Suddenly, I'm having trouble untangling my thoughts. It's been a while since she's stayed the night, but I could list every single time Maisie has slept over. Usually, I set her up in the guest room just off the main hallway by the kitchen, then head upstairs to my own bed. I lie there, unreasonably turned on, staring up at the ceiling, willing myself to sleep instead of mentally stripping her down, one layer at a time.

But things are different now. I know what it's like to drift off with her curled up in my arms, her cold feet tucked between my calves, her nose pressed into my chest in the early hours after a long night in the studio. I know how she lets out the sweetest gasp I've ever heard when I edge her to orgasm, how she cries out my name.

I know things I'll never be able to un-know, but tonight... I don't think that's what she needs from me.

"Yeah," I rasp out, nodding stiffly, pressing the gas as I pull away from the crowd. "Of course you can."

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Phew 😅 I've had these last few chapters stuck in my brain since the beginning, and boy, am I happy to be done with them. I love some emotional angst, but let's get back to the spice, yeah? Next chapter will be smutty, so consider this your warning.

Also, I'd love to get your thoughts on the story—whether you're loving it, hating it, or anything in between. Any kind of feedback is always so incredibly helpful and the best motivation, so help a girl out and comment or hit that vote button.

See you guys next week! Xx