The next week was jam-packed with work for the building project. Demolition was on schedule, and everything was moving smoothly. I managed to see Con a few times, mostly quick breaks for lunch or a stolen afternoon at the gym helping to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I brought all sorts of extras and stuffed those in the bags as well: granola bars, fruit snacks, pudding cups, and all of the other fun stuff I’d always wanted to see when I opened my brown paper lunch bag. One afternoon we’d even taken that shopping trip to get suits for the boys. I couldn’t wait to see the pride on their faces when they walked into their next tournament.

Trey had recovered enough to leave the hospital, and I’d arranged to have a nurse visit their home for several hours a day to help out his mother. He’d missed his orientation at West Point, but they’d agreed not to defer him if he could pass his physical before the semester started. Given that Trey was a fighter, I was putting my money on him.

Hennessy’s investigation around the carjacking and shooting was successful. The guy responsible was arrested and charged. One of the least pleasant experiences of my life was participating in identifying him during the line up. Con, and a stubborn, but still-weak Trey, had stood on either side of me when I’d said the number aloud. That was at least one instance of justice being served.

I couldn’t imagine how it felt for Con to spend years not knowing who had been responsible for killing his parents, especially with the guilt he carried. I hated that it ate away at him, but I didn’t know how I could help. I guessed this fell into the category of being a supportive girlfriend.

Archer had been away all week attending a national conference and wouldn’t return until Monday. I was surprised he hadn’t asked me to attend with him, but I assumed it was because the budget only allowed for one person to go. Ever conscious of how the foundation expended its funds, I didn’t protest or complain. But it did mean that I still hadn’t had an opportunity to tell him about Con and me yet.

I went back and forth—did I tell Archer first or my father? Neither conversation was going to be easy, but I hoped telling Archer first and having his support might make it less intimidating to tell my father. Because if Archer had no problem with it, I was hoping my father would be influenced to feel similarly. And yes, I was aware that was a whole lot of hope.

I strode up the ramp to the Steamboat Orleans on Fourth of July, my heels and spirits high. I’d come up with a plan. Finally. I would tell Archer before I left work on Monday, and I’d tell my father when he arrived home on Monday night. I’d practiced my speech, over and over, and I was feeling confident that Archer would see things my way.

Con had done so much good in the community without asking for any kind of recognition. We could all learn something from him about giving back without expectations.

Archer would understand. He was a philanthropist to the core. He’d respect that about Con. I truly believed that Archer would want me to be happy. I hoped my father would feel the same way. I didn’t want to be estranged from the only parent I had left, but it was certainly a possibility. A very disheartening possibility.

The party was already in full swing when I arrived, and I shook hands and made small talk. I worked the crowd to avoid my father, and occasionally caught glimpses of Simon and Charlie. She looked incredibly poised and almost…accustomed to this type of event.

Now that’s interesting.

I didn’t have time to dwell on the thought when a warm hand pressed against my lower back.

I glanced over my shoulder…to find Lucas Titan.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed.

“I believe I was invited.”

“This wasn’t on your list.”

“Because I’d already been invited, and I assumed you’d be here anyway.”

His arrogant confidence pissed me off. “Well since I didn’t agree to meet you here or act as your date,” I spat the word, “feel free to find others to mingle with.”

His jaw clenched, and his green eyes darkened. A frisson of fear rippled through me at his aggressive posture. “I thought we’d already had this discussion ad nauseam, Vanessa. The one where I tell you that you’ve got a lot more to lose in this situation than I do.”

I found my backbone and reinforced it with steel. “I’m going to tell Archer. When he gets back on Monday. So your leverage is gone, Titan.”

His jaw relaxed into a feral smile. “Oh, Vanessa. Don’t try to play games you can’t win. All it would take is one phone call.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Better play nice.” I calmed the urge to slap him by sucking in a slow, deep breath and releasing it. I’d promised Con that I wouldn’t go to another event with Lucas. Promised him I was done playing this role. This game. This farce. And now I was breaking that trust. I squeezed my eyes shut for a beat. I just needed to brazen this out.

“I need a drink,” I said, turning for the bar. Lucas’s hand never left my back as we worked the crowd until we reached our destination.

When Lucas opened his mouth, presumably to order for me, I held up a hand. “I’ll have a gin and tonic, please.”

Lucas’s raised eyebrows cemented my plan to get just tipsy enough to make this bearable, but not so drunk as to make a spectacle of myself.

I thought it was a workable plan.

Three G&Ts in, and I was feeling much better about the state of my life. Lucas had disappeared to discuss business with someone, and I was in desperate need of the ladies’ room. Carefully making my way down the stairs to the lower deck, I found the facilities.

After double-checking that I still looked mostly presentable, I exited and headed back up the stairs, staring at my feet to make certain I didn’t miss a step.

I reached the top and ran directly into my father.

“I’ve been wondering when I’d get a moment of your time tonight, my dear. How about another drink with your old man?” he asked, leading me toward the bar.

I followed dutifully, but I was getting sick of being led around this boat like a damn horse. First Titan and now my father. “A club soda with lime for me, please,” I told the bartender. It was probably time I lay off the booze.

My father ordered a scotch—over my objections about his health—and paid for our drinks. “Cash bars are so tacky.”

“But they help make sure the cost of the event is defrayed so that the donations go toward the cause they’re supposed to be supporting.” I thought the words came out coherent, but my father eyed me suspiciously.