chapter 4

Gwyneth

Two years later

“Dad!”

I run down the stairs and toward the front door, my sneakers slapping on the marble with each step.

At the sound of my voice, he stops and turns to me with a questioning gaze and a smile.

There’s always a smile on Dad’s face whenever he looks at me. Even when he’s mad at me, he soon forgets it all and smiles.

Our housekeeper, Martha, says I’m the only one who makes him smile from his heart. So I’m kind of proud of having the superpower of making the “savage devil,” as the media dubs him, smile only at me.

But the media is a bunch of assholes, because they forget that he’s been such a devout single parent ever since he was young.

My dad hasn’t aged much. At thirty-seven going on thirty-eight, he still has a strong build that fills out his suit. He’s tall and broad and has an eight-pack. No kidding. He’s the healthiest man I know. But he also has a few age lines that make him the wisest ever—aside from a certain someone.

Also, the look in his blue-gray eyes, the same eyes that now look at me with love, can kill. I can tell why many people find him intimidating and absolutely brutal. When someone has his fortune, looks, and personality, people either bow or stay away.

But once again, I have the superpower of being his only flesh and blood.

“You forgot your phone.” I wave it in front of him and take a slurp of my vanilla milkshake—which is my version of a morning coffee.

Dad sighs as he takes the phone. He’s not the type who forgets,ever—his memory is like an elephant’s, but it feels as if he’s been preoccupied more than usual lately.

Maybe it’s an important case. Or his unending legal battles with my step-grandmother, Susan. I swear, neither of them will let go and it’ll just go on forever in court until one of them dies.

After he tucks the phone in his pocket, he pinches my cheek. “What would I do without you, my little angel?”

I pull back. “Hey! I’m not little anymore. We celebrated my twentieth birthday a month ago.”

“You’ll always be little to me. Besides, a vanilla milkshake is still your favorite drink, which proves my theory.”

“It’s my happy drink.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ve really grown up. See how tall I am?”

“How tall or old you are doesn’t matter. You’ll always be little to me.”

“Even when I’m old and wrinkly and taking care of you?”

“Even then. Deal with it.”

“You’re hopeless, Dad.”

“Gwyneth Catherine Shaw, who are you calling hopeless?”

I fix his crooked tie and feign sadness. “A certain Kingsley who’s getting old yet refuses to settle down with someone.”

“I have my little angel and, therefore, I need no one else.”

“I’ll leave one day, Dad.”

“Not if I have a say in it.”

“Are you going to keep me single forever?”

“Hmm.” He stares at me thoughtfully, as if he’s trying to figure out the ending to humanity’s misery. “Hypothetically, no, because I want grandchildren—eventually. But I don’t like the journey that leads to that outcome.”

“There could always be a surprise pregnancy.”

Dad stiffens and I internally curse myself for not keeping my mouth shut. This, of all subjects, isn’t something he’s a fan of—because of my mother, I guess.

He hid it from me until I was eight. Up until that time, he used to tell me that she’d died, but then I overheard him talking to Nate and that’s when he told me the sad reality.

Ever since then, we made a pact to never lie to each other.

“Are you pregnant?” His voice loses all humor.

“What? No, of course not, Dad.”

He grabs my shoulders and leans down so his eyes are level with mine. “Gwen, if you are, just tell me.”

“No…”

“Is it that kid with the bike? I’m going to fucking murder him.”

“It’s not Chris. I was just kidding. I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure? Because that motherfucker is going to have a surprise visit from me and his Grim Reaper.”

“Don’t, Dad. I’m really not pregnant. I promise.”

He releases a breath, then staggers backward as if he’s been punched.

What I just said must have reminded him of how I ended up at his door. My mystery mother—who’s a taboo subject around here—abandoned me in front of Grandpa’s house when Dad was still in high school with a measly note that read “She’s yours, Kingsley. Do whatever you want with her.”

And that’s how I came to life. Abandoned. Discarded.

She didn’t even tell him to take care of me. Just “whatever he wanted.”

“Don’t joke about things like that, Gwen,” Dad tells me in his no-nonsense voice.

“I know. I didn’t mean to.” I grin up at him in an attempt to change the mood. “Aren’t you forgetting something else?”

He places his briefcase on the floor and opens his arms. “Come here.”

I dive in, wrapping my arms around him. “I love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too, Angel. You’re the best gift I’ve ever received.”

Moisture gathers in my lids and it takes everything in me not to be all emotional and tell him stupid things like how it hurts that I’m not Mom’s gift, too. That she considered me trash to be discarded. That she’s a coward who abandoned both of us.

Because, in a way, I’ve always had a hunch that he was waiting for her. Twenty years later and he must be exhausted. He must be at his limit.

Maybe I’m at my limit, too. Despite all Dad’s love, I’ve always felt that a piece of me was missing, lost somewhere I can never reach.

That could be the reason I grew up to be a hollow person with barely anything at my core. Someone sweet on the outside, but completely and utterly empty on the inside.

Someone with a dysfunctional brain.

Someone who needs lists and coping mechanisms to stay afloat.