Sylvia’s father sat in the backseat. His posture was perfect—imposing even when sitting still, his salt and pepper hair gleaming.

"What?" she asked sharply, refusing to play polite.

"I need to talk to you," he said. "Father to daughter."

"I’m not interested."

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Syl," he said softly, "don’t make me beg. I am still your father."

Sylvia sighed and crossed her arms, her patience hanging by a thread. "Fine," she said finally. "What do you want?"

"Get in the car. Come on."

She exhaled heavily and tugged the car door open. She slid into the seat beside him, her body angled just slightly away, creating that invisible barrier that said you don’t get to control me anymore.

Tom leaned forward, tapping twice on the back of the driver’s seat. "Go," he instructed curtly. The driver gave a silent nod and eased the car smoothly away from the curb.

"Where are we going?" Sylvia asked, glancing at her father from the corner of her eye.

"Just want to find a quiet place to talk," he replied.

"Right," she muttered, leaning back in the seat.

Meanwhile, Reese had seen the car pull away from the curb. He cursed under his breath and sprinted across the driveway toward the guard station. "Keys," he barked, already scanning the board of numbered hooks.

The guard barely managed to point before Reese snatched a key ring and bolted toward the smaller SUV stationed near the gate. He threw himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine with a growl.

Reese tightened his grip on the wheel, peeled out of the gate.

*****

"Dad, you know how Winn feels about me being in a bar," Sylvia said, irritation dripping from every syllable. The car had pulled to a stop outside a sleek building with tinted glass and a gold sign that read THE EMPEROR’S ROOM. She could already hear the faint hum of jazz music and low male laughter spilling from inside.

"This is not a bar," Tom corrected, smoothing the front of his navy suit jacket as he stepped out. "It’s a gentleman’s club. You wouldn’t even be allowed in if you weren’t with me."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better," she muttered, folding her arms.

"Don’t be dramatic, Syl. It’s private. And I’m here. I’m sure I can take care of my own daughter."

He gestured toward the door, where a large man in a black tuxedo stood holding it open, waiting.

"Just sit with me for a drink," Tom said finally, lowering his voice. "That’s all I’m asking."

Sylvia hesitated, arms still folded. She didn’t trust this version of her father. The calm one. The soft-spoken one.

But she stepped forward anyway.

Because if she refused, he’d just show up again tomorrow.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cigars and aged whiskey. Men in suits clustered around tables, low laughter rumbling. A saxophone purred softly from the corner stage, wrapping the room in a haze of slow seduction.

Tom guided her toward a private booth near the back. "See?" he said with a small smile. "Just a conversation."

Sylvia sat across from him, eyeing him warily. "Sure," she said.

"I’ll have a whiskey, please," Tom said.

The waiter bowed slightly, his eyes flicking between father and daughter before murmuring, "Of course, Mr. Kane." Then he disappeared into the dim haze of the club.

"So, Sylvia..." Tom began. "Sharona said you’ve been calling her nonstop. Asking her to call off the wedding."

Sylvia arched a brow, lips curving into a faint, sarcastic smile. "Yes," she said, lifting her chin. "Anything new?"

Tom sighed, leaning back. "This was your brother’s choice, Syl. He has his reasons. He needs to save his company. He needs your grandfather’s fortune."

Just then, the waiter returned with a silver tray and a bottle of aged whiskey — GlenDrach 25. The cork popped, the liquid poured in a slow, hypnotic stream into Tom’s glass. He inhaled deeply, savoring it.

Sylvia, on the other hand, watched him with a growing chill beneath her skin.

"He can marry anyone else," Sylvia said finally.

Tom took a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes narrowing. "Syl... come on."

"I don’t trust you. And I trust Sharona even less."

Tom’s mouth tightened.

"Sharona was never my friend — she’s yours. And I’m done pretending otherwise. Here’s what’s going to happen. She backs out of the wedding... or I tell Winn everything."

"Everything?" he repeated. His gaze held hers, daring her to elaborate.

"Read my lips," Sylvia said slowly. "Everything. Really, Dad, I don’t care what happens at this point."

"You’re bluffing."

"Try me," she whispered.

"Will you really be able to stand Winn’s disappointment?" He leaned forward slightly. "Joey’s anger — when he finds out you’re the reason his wife is dead? Or are you just going to pick and choose the information that will cause the least damage?"

Sylvia froze, her breath hitching in her throat. "I..." she started.

Tom smiled faintly. "Syl... I didn’t bring you here to fight." He exhaled and lifted his whiskey glass, taking a slow, deliberate sip. The liquid caught the light, sliding down the side of the glass as his tongue flicked over his lips to taste it. He savored it like a man tasting victory. "I want to make amends."

Sylvia turned her face away, her throat tight.

"Sweetie," Tom began again. He set the glass down gently. "I’ve always been the one who spoiled you. You mean the world to me." He chuckled softly. "Yes, I can be quite brutal. It’s called tough love. You know that. I’m not claiming to be an angel — I wouldn’t even call myself a good father."

Sylvia let out a small, bitter laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. "That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all night."

He ignored the jab, his gaze fixed on her. "But you are my first child, Syl. My first everything. And despite everything I’ve done — all the things you hate me for — I love you." His hand reached across the table, stopping just short of hers. "I don’t want to fight with you anymore."