Page 12 of Arranged To Be Mine

I had done that. My disaster was raining down on him.

He walked past me into the house without waiting for an invitation. I followed him to the kitchen, where he set the pizza box on the marble island and started opening beers. The smell hit me immediately. Pepperoni and mushroom. Our go-to anytime there was something big going on. Combination pizza was for after a long day. Hawaiian was for celebrations. Today was definitely a pepperoni and mushroom day.

Pizza was our thing. Had been since I was eight years old and Mom was gone and Dad didn’t know how to cook anything that didn’t come out of a box. He worked constantly back then, building Corwin Gems from a regional jeweler into a national brand. But he never left me at home with the nannies or the housekeepers. Every night, no matter how late he worked, I was there in his office, doing homework on his couch or coloring at his conference table while he took calls and reviewed contracts.

And when it got late enough that we were both starving, we’d order pizza. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t the kind of parenting that showed up in heartwarming movies. But it was ours. Pizza meant Dad was there, even when everything else was falling apart.

He slid a beer across the counter to me. I took it and drank straight from the can because I might be a Corwin, but I was also a girl who appreciated a cold beer with the aluminum taste.

“So,” he said, flipping open the pizza box. “That could have gone better.”

I laughed, though there was no humor in it. “You think?”

“I’m not upset with you.”

“You should be.” I grabbed a slice and bit into it, needing grease and carbs to soothe my bruised soul. “I just announced to the entire world that under my leadership, love gives up hope. That’s going to be the headline for weeks. Months, maybe. Every time someone Googles my name, that’s what they’re going to find.”

“Probably.”

“The board is going to question whether I’m ready. Everything I’ve worked for gone with a single two-letter word.”

“Darcy.” His voice was firm but not harsh. The voice he used when he needed me to stop spiraling and listen. “I’m not mad at you.”

I took another drink of beer. We were going to need more at this rate. “Why not? You should be furious. I had one job. Stand up there, read the teleprompter, don’t screw up. And I screwed up.”

“The screw-up wasn’t misreading the prompter. It happened when you panicked.”

“I know.”

He took a long drink of his beer, studying me with those sharp eyes that had seen me through every crisis. “You know what I taught you, growing up?”

“A lot of things.”

“Never let the world see you fall apart.” He set down his beer. “That’s what I drilled into you. When things go wrong, you don’t cry. You don’t show weakness. You handle it privately and present a strong face to the world.”

“I’ve tried my best to follow that advice.”

“And that’s exactly what you did.” He shrugged like it was obvious. “You were about to fall apart up there. I could see it. So you got yourself away before anyone could see you crack.”

I stared at him. “That’s not a defense. That’s the problem. I should have been able to handle it. I should have laughed it off, corrected myself, moved on. Instead, I ran like a scared little girl.”

“Maybe.” He grabbed another slice of pizza. “But you did what I trained you to do. You protected yourself. You didn’t let them see you vulnerable.” A pause. “That’s on me, not you.”

I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to hear that. Not absolution exactly but understanding. Recognition that I wasn’t weak or incompetent.

“It’s still a disaster,” I said quietly.

“It is. But it’s a fixable disaster.” He met my eyes. “Which is why I hired someone to help.”

I straightened. “Already? Who?”

“The man you told me I should have hired for the lawsuit.”

It took me a second to process that.

“No.” I shook my head. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s done.”