Page 33 of Twisted Control

I hit reply: trust me, he was not complaining!!!

I click out out the forum. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

I head downstairs for coffee and I pause at the threshold when I spot dad in the kitchen. He’s dressed for golf.

Just be normal, I tell myself. He doesn’t know—how could he know? He can’t. I pull the knot in my robe tighter and walk in.

“Sweetheart,” he greets me. “What are you doing Saturday night?” Dad asks without looking up from his phone.

All I hear is Saturday night.

“What did I do last night?” I ask, heat rushing to my cheeks. Oh my god—he knows. “I was ah—” I stumble. The lie won’t come.

“Next Saturday.”

“Oh,” I say, trying not to let me relief show. I walk over to the coffee pot. “I’m not sure yet,” I say lightly.

The truth is, I have no plans. I’m still kicked out of all the group chats. No one has called me back. No one wants to be seen with me right now.

“You’ll come to The Crestwood with me for dinner.”

Even though I technically have nothing better to do, I still have to physically stop myself from groaning. The Crestwood is one of those painfully proper, old-money golf clubs where everyone talks in low voices about utterly dull things. Last time I went, I got trapped in a three-hour conversation with a man called Milton Buffet. Three hours. I deserve some kind of medal. I usually pull off the whole charming, polite, socially acceptable version of myself—but honestly, everyone has a breaking point. And I’m pretty sure mine involves another evening at Crestwood.

“For any particular reason?” I ask.

“Do I need a reason to take my daughter to dinner?”

“No, of course not,” I say quickly, arranging my sweetest, most convincing smile. “That sounds lovely. It’s been ages since we’ve gone out.”

Which is true. Also: mildly suspicious. He’s not exactly known for spontaneous father-daughter bonding moments. Especially not in public. Especially not lately.

“Some associates of mine will be there as well.”

I pause. There it is.

“Oh?” I say, like I haven’t already connected every obvious dot.

“Charles Lackey and Leonard Kane.”

Of course.

Charles owns a Biotech company—big money, and Leonard owns a chain of funeral homes. Funerals, apparently, are big business. In dad’s mind, they’d make excellent husbands. Not because of who they are, obviously, but because they both own superyachts.

This dinner is just a thinly veiled way for Dad to parade me in front of rich, well-connected men, so he can quietly buff what’s left of my reputation.

“I might actually have a date,” I say quickly. The lie slips out before I can stop it. “I just remembered.”

“With who?”

“Julian Vale,” I lie.

Dad lets out a short, dismissive laugh. “The self-help guru? Come on, Grace. As if you haven’t humiliated this family enough already.”

“He’s done very well for himself⁠—”

“He’s a swindler. Have some self-respect and cancel it.”

Great. He’s left me with no way out now.