Page 229 of Rush

My pulse thuds in my neck. I hold his gaze, wait for him to pull rank, demand I watch my tone.

Instead, he folds his glasses and sets them on the table. “Then sit. Let’s talk.”

I walk in slowly, unbuttoning my coat as I enter enemy territory, instead of a sunlit room full of jam and fresh croissants. I sit for a moment, but the nerves get the best of me, so I stand up again, shifting from foot to foot.

“I came because I don’t want to carry this into Christmas. I don’t want to spend another year acting like everything’s fine, only to blow up about it later.”

My father’s jaw ticks. Carole watches me, endless patience painted in her eyes.

“You hurt me,” I say, eyes still on him. “You both did. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get over it—but I’m trying…”

I pause, take a breath, then continue.

“I need you,” I fix my gaze firmly on my father, “to give me a chance to navigate my life without trying to control every aspect of it, all I want from you is your support—without judgement.”

His mouth opens, but I keep going.

“I know our family history is…complicated but Carole, I’m sorry—for the shit I said. I can’t take it back, but after the crap with my ex…you were so kind to me. I can’t say I’ll always be nice, but I’ll try my best to be…nicer.”

I sigh, “So, I’m saying it. Out loud. And now it’s yours to do what you want with. But I’ve said it.”

There’s so much left to say—about the divorce, about Mom, about the damage he’s done to me. But it doesn’t feel like the right time.

Small, baby steps.

Years of resentment doesn’t just go away overnight—this is me trying—again.

Carole gasps, not expecting an apology from me. “Elena, thank you—that must have taken some courage to do…I’m proud of you,” she says, eyes glassy as she takes a sip from her teacup, swallowing her emotions down.

Mortimer looks…off-balance? As if I’ve knocked the rhythm out of his usual measured cadence.

Then, smoothing the paper flat with one hand, he says, “What about the man you were pictured with at the charity gala?”

My mouth twitches.

Rage starts to bubble up. I glance around, looking for something—anything—to calm myself.

“Can I have one of these?” I ask, pointing to the pile of croissants in front of them. I don’t wait for a response—just grab one and shove half into my mouth. One, to shut me up before I blow up. Two, to buy myself a second to calm down.

Chew.

Fuck, that’s delicious.

Breathe. In and out.

“He’s just a friend I ran into,” I say, chewing between mouthfuls.

Mortimer doesn’t need the whole truth. Broderickismy friend, and Ididrun into him—I’m not about to go fullNational Geographicdetailing how he fucked me every which-way to Sunday.

He raises an eyebrow, dubious.

I swallow hard.

“Look, I can’t control what the media says. They’ll always twist situations into salacious stories about me. If you want to know something, just ask. I’m asking you to trust me. Believe in me.”

A long breath leaves him—more like a deflation than a sigh. “I would like to do that, if you would answer my calls or even accept my invitation for dinners every now and then.”

“I know…I know, I’ll do better.” I throw my hands up in defeat. I can’t rebuild anything if I keep avoiding him.