He had not merely insulted me. He had not merely struck me. He had dragged my name into rooms where men did not care about birthday dinners, apologies, or fatherhood. He had used my life’s work like poker chips.
And he had lost.
I stood.
Martin rose with me. “Franklin.”
“I’m going home.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
“I’m not asking.”
“Then I’m calling someone to meet you there.”
“No police.”
“Security, then.”
I paused at the door.
Last night, I had refused to call the police because I did not want to see my son led away in handcuffs. That was the last mercy I had given him.
I was not sure I had any left.
“Fine,” I said.
Outside, Houston traffic moved like a restless animal. I drove myself because I always drove myself. The old sedan smelled faintly of leather, dust, and peppermint candies I kept in the console. My face throbbed. My ribs ached where Brandon had shoved me into the edge of a table before the slaps started.
