Stoking the Fire (Salus Security #1) - Teodora Kostova Page 0,98

legs around his waist. I kiss him—his mouth, his nose, his cheeks. He laughs, stumbling back until his back hits the wall.

“Let’s go home, Alec.”

Epilogue

Six months later

I arrive at the restaurant a few minutes before my father. The hostess takes me to our table and offers me a drink. I gladly accept even though it’s barely one in the afternoon. I need something to steady my nerves and give me a bit of courage for the conversation we’re about to have.

The whiskey the server brings me burns my throat as I gulp half of it in one go. I take a deep breath, remembering Alec’s gentle smile and his unshakable belief in me as he kissed me this morning and wished me good luck.

“Hello, son,” my father says as he takes his seat across from me and thanks the hostess.

I didn’t even see him approach, lost in my own head once again.

Focus, Zach.

You got this.

“Hi, Dad.”

The server reappears, and we place our order. My father’s not a chitchat type of guy, so he goes for the jugular the moment we’re alone again.

“So, have you made up your mind?”

I take a sip of my drink, Dad’s eyes following the movement. “I have.”

He beams at me, clasping his hands on the table. “Wonderful. I can have an office ready for you as soon as next week.”

I swallow, willing my fucking anxiety to subside. “I’m not coming to work for you, Dad.”

My father goes completely still, the expression on his face comically frozen. “But you said you made up your mind…”

“I did. And I decided to accept another offer.”

“What other offer?” His voice echoes around us, louder than he probably expected. He glances around, lowering his voice. “Why don’t you just come out and say what you want to say, Zach?”

The server chooses that moment to bring our food, placing a plate in front of each of us, announcing the name of the meal with enormous pride. I suppress a smile at my father’s exasperated expression.

When he finally walks away, Dad aims a hard look in my direction. “Well?”

“Jared Norton approached me a couple of weeks ago with an offer…”

“Jared Norton! Are you serious?”

“I’m very serious.”

Mr. Norton and my father have been friends for decades, even though they’re running rival publishing companies. The hardest thing about making this decision was precisely the fact that they know and respect each other—it feels like a knife in my father’s back to go work for someone who he’s in direct competition with.

“What did he offer you that was more seductive to you than being part of a media empire that will one day be yours?” His words are clipped and his tone as cold as the ice in my whiskey.

Instead of making me shrink in my seat, his words give me the strength I was looking for all along.

“Van Dorf Group won’t be mine. Not really. I can’t just waltz in and step into your shoes.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I speak over him. “The media empire, as you call it, needs a skilled politician at the helm. Someone who’s always one step ahead, who knows how to navigate all the games and politics behind the scenes. Who enjoys the games and politics. Someone like you.” I hold his gaze, even though the regret and disappointment are evident in it. “I’m not interested in that. Never have been.”

Shaking his head, my father starts cutting into his steak with more vigor than the tender meat requires.

“I want to write, Dad,” I press on, my voice pleading. “I want to pull on the thread of a story until it unravels. To find the truth that people try to keep buried. To make a difference.” I bite my lip, trying to arrange the mess of thoughts in my head. “But I also need to prove to myself that I can make it on my own.”

My father raises his eyes back to me. He studies me, his intense blue eyes on me making me fidget with the napkin.

“I want to work somewhere where my last name doesn’t matter,” I say quietly. “The first thing Mr. Norton said to me was that in his company my name won’t be a privilege. On the contrary.” I smile at the memory. “He called it a warning, but to me it was an assurance.”

Propping his knife and fork on the edge of the plate, Dad leans back in his chair, still not saying anything. At long last, he lets out a