Page 55 of Twisted Control

“Drew,” I say, half appalled, half impressed. “What the hell did you do?”

“You’re welcome.”

I hang up and hurry back toward the dining room, my heels slipping slightly on the wet floor.

The Crestwood has dissolved into chaos. Chairs scrape. Waiters weave frantically between guests. Water sprays from the ceiling while people scatter in every direction trying to save handbags, jackets…dignity. Somewhere nearby, a man is demanding to speak to the manager in an outraged tone.

My dress is plastered to me now, cold, heavy, and far more transparent than I’d like. I fold my arms tightly across my chest and keep moving.

Dad reaches me first.

“Grace,” he snaps, grabbing my arm and steering me toward the exit with surprising force. Water streams down his face, flattening his carefully styled hair into damp strips. His suit looks ruined. “This is unbelievable. Completely unacceptable,” he says.

Outside, the cool night air hits us both at once. We stand there dripping onto the pavement while guests continue pouring out behind us.

Dad finally looks at me properly. His eyes flick down over my soaked dress for one brief second before he looks away again, jaw tightening.

“Let’s get you home.”

The drive home is one long monologue.

Dad spends the entire trip ranting about declining standards, liability, the collapse of proper service, and how “in my day this sort of thing never would have happened.” I sit in the passenger seat wrapped around myself, trying not to shiver as the air conditioning blows against my damp dress. Every so often I nod at the appropriate moment.

But secretly?

I’m delighted.

Pulling the fire alarm at the Crestwood? That’s not just reckless. It’s practically criminal.

I always knew Drew could be rough around the edges. He swears constantly, has terrible manners, and behaves like someone who learned social etiquette exclusively from drunk men at a sports bar. But I never would’ve guessed he had actual criminal tendencies. He could get into serious trouble for something like that.

And he did it for me.

Obviously because he’s obsessed with me. There’s really no other explanation. The thought of me trapped at dinner with other men clearly sent him into some kind of jealous spiral.

Honestly, it’s almost romantic.

When we finally pull into the driveway, Dad cuts the engine and turns toward me.

“Get ready,” he says. “We’re heading back out. Leonard and Charles are expecting us at⁠—”

“I can’t,” I interrupt quickly. “It’ll take forever to redo my hair and makeup.”

“You have ten minutes.”

I tilt my head and give him my most innocent expression. “Dad, I look like a drowned rat. I really don’t think Leonard and Charles want to see me like this.”

He hesitates, clearly imagining it. Then he exhales sharply.

“Fine. You stay here.”

“I’m devastated,” I say smoothly. “I’ll just have an early night instead.”

He barely hears me. He’s already climbing out of the car, still muttering about incompetence as he heads inside.

I go straight to the shower.

The hot water feels incredible after the freezing disaster at the club. Steam curls through the bathroom, washing away the evening. By the time I step out wrapped in a towel, I feel lighter. Restless in a way that’s dangerously close to excited.