"You’ve got the ring, right?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Good. I deposited more than enough money in your account. Susan booked you a suite at The St. Regis, and your driver should be waiting outside the airport now."

"Jeez, dad. You didn’t have to do all that."

"Please, son. If it weren’t for me, you’d be running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Don’t be stupid," he huffs.

My jaw clenches. Blood simmers beneath my skin. This was supposed to be my trip. My spontaneous moment. But what’s so spontaneous about my dad planning every damn detail? At this point, it doesn’t even feel like my proposal anymore.

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks," I say flatly.

I step outside onto the sidewalk, scanning the curb for the driver. That’s when I freeze.

My blood runs cold.

No. No way.

What the hell is he doing here?

I swallow hard, feeling the air get thin as everything else seems to fade into the background. There, a few feet away from me, standing under the bright street lamps like some cruel joke, is Nathaniel Philips.

I don’t know what’s worse: seeing him for the first time after all these years, or realizing I still have no will power to look away.

I pull my phone to my ear and murmur into the receiver, "Uh, dad? I gotta go," before hanging up without waiting for a response.

Nathaniel hasn’t even noticed me yet. I take this as a perfect moment to recognize how different he looks. He has filled out way more since I last saw him. He’s clearly been working out and gained the muscles he lacked throughout school. He's looking around, his eyes jumping from one direction to another, like he’s trying to find his bearings. It doesn’t take long, though, before his eyes catch mine.

When they do, time stretches, and I feel my pulse pick up. His face goes pale, his body stiffening like he’s been hit with a wave of electricity.

His eyes flicker across me, from my head to my shoes, then back up again, almost like he can’t believe I’m standing there. I can’t help it, I smirk. It’s petty, but something inside me takes satisfaction in seeing him like this. The way his whole demeanor changes—like he didn’t expect me to still have this kind of effect on him. I know I’ve always had some sort of effect on him and it’s nice to see it still lingering beneath the surface. I wonder if I can still coax it out.

I don’t wait. I walk toward him, my shoes marching loudly against the sidewalk.

"Oh no, no, no," he mutters, the words strained and choked. His voice is different now. It’s deeper, more jagged. And that sends something sharp right through my chest.

I raise an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch between us for a moment, enjoying the tension hanging thick in the air. “What in the hell are you doing here?” I ask, my voice low.