Page 97 of Dallas Rivals

Then again, once I remembered Oliver Walker was footing the bill, it made perfect sense. Of course it would be the best of the best.

The van stops at the front, and a ramp unfolds so my father can roll down in his chair.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” a cheerful woman calls out as she approaches. Her straight blond hair hangs stiffly against her shoulders, and her smile looks like it’s been rehearsed in the mirror. “Lucien! It’s so wonderful to see you here with your family.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Gloria,” my father replies politely. “This is my wife, Lis, and our daughter, Cala.”

She shakes our hands firmly, still smiling like she’s had too much coffee.

This morning, we slipped out of the ranch while Oliver was busy with his nephews. Even though he’d made it clear that he wanted my father at the Walkers’ Thanksgiving table, my dad insisted we had no place there. He told us—behind Oliver’s back, of course—that the center’s van would pick us up in thirty minutes.

So here we are.

I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye to Oliver or wish him a happy Thanksgiving, and the guilt is eating me alive. Things between us have been fragile since the fight. The moment I threw him out of my bathroom, I knew I’d made a huge mistake. But by then, it was too late. I can’t get the look on his face out of my head—the disappointment, the hurt. And honestly, I’m disappointed in myself too, for not being brave enough to just tell him how I feel.

“Thank you for having us,” my mother says, smiling graciously. I copy her expression, the one she taught me to wear when the inside of me doesn’t match the outside.

All I can think about is how furious Oliver’s going to be when he realizes we’re not sitting at his table tonight.

“Come in, come in! We’re just about to start, there are at least forty steaming turkeys waiting to be shared among all the families!”

We walk into a large hall. The back wall is completely made of glass, so it feels like the sky and the green lawn outside have spilled into the room. Tables fill the space, each one shared by two families arranging their plates and drinks, laughing and chatting before the meal begins.

My mother looks genuinely excited, and so does my father. They were never the social type—never had friends over, never hosted dinners. On weekends, when my dad came home, he’d just rest or spend quiet time with us. So, seeing him now—smiling, greeting people, fist-bumping other men—it does something to me. It makes me happy. For the first time, he looks content.

“Over here!” calls the woman from earlier, waving us toward a table. There’s already a family waiting there. They smile warmly and welcome us right away.

My parents start chatting with them; in this family, it’s the wife who’s in a wheelchair. She’s young—much younger than my father—and beautiful, with this radiant, effortless glow about her. Her husband looks just as kind, holding a little girl with golden curls who can’t be older than two.

My parents melt instantly. They start making faces and playing peekaboo to make the baby laugh, and for a moment I wonder if they ever thought about being grandparents. It’s something we never talked about. I’ve never really pictured myself as a mother, but watching them now—so soft, so alive around this child—it makes me question things.

I’ve always been focused on studying, working, building a future. But now… with how different everything feels, how much time I spend surrounded by animals and open fields instead of people, I’m not sure a family of my own would even fit into that picture anymore.

A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, firm and grounding—and my whole body stiffens.

When I turn around, the warmth drains from my face.

“Oliver.”

He’s standing there, tall and composed, but his jaw is tight, his eyes storm-dark.

“Why are you here?” His voice is low, controlled, the kind that carries power even when it barely rises. “We’ve been waiting for you…”

“I thought Cala told you we were coming here,” my father says flatly, forcing a polite, rigid smile.

“She did.” Oliver’s tone cuts through the air like a blade. “And I told her I wanted you all at my table. You’re family, Lucien.”

The word family hangs between them, heavy and complicated.

My father doesn’t respond. He just looks at Oliver’s hand still hovering near my shoulder, and something territorial flashes in his eyes.

“Oliver,” I murmur, trying to defuse the moment, but the air feels charged, too thick to breathe. His eyes snap to mine, and the rest of the room disappears. “You’re not going to change his mind. Go enjoy the day with your family.”

His lips twitch—not into a smile, but into something darker, restrained. “I can’t,” he says, his voice breaking softly against my skin, “not if you’re not there.”

The words hit me right in the chest.

Because I feel it too.