Chapter 40 THE MCKENNAS - Part II

Chapter 40 THE MCKENNAS - Part II
RYAN

"Are you okay?" Sean asks softly, his thumb drawing slow circles across the back of my hand. The motion is steady, soothing—it makes my chest ache in the best way, like he's trying to anchor me here instead of letting me spiral.
I nod, but it's not convincing.
"You're eerily quiet tonight," he presses, eyes searching mine.
"I'm fine," I answer, though the words taste hollow. What I really want to say is that I hate this. I hate sitting here while my dad treats Sean like a defendant on the stand, like he has any right to interrogate him about relationships when he can't even keep one with his own children.
So instead, I just squeeze Sean's hand under the table, hoping he feels what I can't put into words: I've got you. I'm here. Don't let him get to you.
The table goes quiet, every word hanging heavy between us.
Then Flynn, of all people, leans back in his chair and smooths his tie like he's shifting gears. His tone is casual, but the edge in it is sharp enough to slice steel. "And who would this one be?" His gaze flicks to the woman at Dad's side, polished and perfect, smiling like she knows exactly what she walked into. "I swear they keep getting younger and younger, Father."
Theo lets out a strangled laugh that turns into a cough. I clamp my lips shut before something slips out, my whole body tight with secondhand panic.
Dad's head turns slowly toward Flynn, and for once, I'm not the one under his crosshairs. His eyes narrow. "Careful," he says softly, the kind of soft that makes grown men regret speaking.
Flynn doesn't flinch. He just picks up his water glass, takes a sip, and mutters, "Touché."
The woman beside Dad gives the faintest smile, like she's enjoying the show. Which, of course, makes me want to crawl under the table.
Sean, meanwhile, just slides his hand across my knee under the table, steady and warm, like it's the most natural thing in the world to anchor me while my family tests the limits of each other's patience.
And then, thank God, the server appears to collect our dinner order, cutting the tension with unnecessary menus we don't need. Dad rattles off the same dishes we always get, and whatever he is having, Sean is having. But it doesn't matter—the brief pause feels like oxygen.
Until Dad decides to suffocate it.
"Scarlett." His voice cuts clean through the table chatter. All eyes swing to me. "What's happening with your internships?"
My spine stiffens. "I got the call back from Goldman for this summer."
Dad nods once, like he expected nothing less. "Good. Then you know you'll have to work twice as hard to keep it. Following in your brothers' footsteps isn't easy." His gaze flicks to Flynn and Theo, proud, pointed.
"I know," I reply tightly.
"Do you?" His brow arches, sharp. "Because what I don't want to hear is that you're wasting time. You weren't raised to be a housewife trailing after an aspiring athlete from city to city."
Heat burns up my neck, my stomach twisting so violently I grip my napkin under the table.
Theo clears his throat. "Dad—"
But I get there first. "I know what I was raised to do," I snap, sharper than I mean to. "And it wasn't to sit here and be lectured like I don't."
The table stills. Even Flynn's head lifts, eyes narrowing at Dad.
Beside me, Sean's hand presses against my knee under the table, steady, grounding, silently asking if I want him to step in.
But I hold Dad's stare, because I refuse to look small in front of him—not tonight.
Dad's words hang there, sharp and ugly, and I feel them trying to crawl under my skin like they always do. I'm ready to crack back again, but Sean beats me to it.
"With all due respect, sir," he says, voice even but edged with steel, "Ryan doesn't need you—or me, or anyone—questioning her work ethic. She's tougher than anyone I know. She's earned every opportunity she's gotten."
My heart slams. I squeeze his hand under the table, part gratitude, part what are you doing, do you want to die?
Dad's head turns slowly, his gaze settling on Sean with the kind of chill that makes most people fold. "Brave words," he says, almost idly. "But let me give you some advice, Mr. Callahan—do not mistake loyalty for clarity. One doesn't always mean the other."
The tension snaps tighter. Theo's fork scrapes against his plate, loud in the silence. Flynn watches like he's cataloging every move for later.
And then something in me just—breaks.
"Enough," I say, louder than I expect. My pulse hammers, but I push through it. "You sit here with someone we don't even know"—I glance at the woman beside him, still poised, still silent, "who you didn't bother introducing, by the way—and think it's fine to grill my boyfriend like you're God Almighty himself? No. Not tonight."
Dad's brows lift, cool and unimpressed. "Scar—"
"No," I cut him off, voice shaking but strong. "You can't show up late with a stranger on your arm and act like you hold all the cards. Not when you've spent years making it impossible for any of us to measure up."
The words spill out before I can stop them, and for the first time, Dad actually looks caught off guard. Just for a flicker.
Sean's hand tightens around mine, grounding me. Theo leans back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his mouth like he's proud. And Flynn—Flynn just watches, unreadable, but he doesn't stop me.
For once, I don't feel small. The words are out, sharp and raw, hanging over the table like smoke. And for the briefest moment, I think I see him flinch.
But then Dad exhales, slow and deliberate, and his expression slides back into the mask I know too well. Cold. Controlled. Unshaken.
"You really think you can lecture me?" His tone slices, ice over steel. Scarlett, you've always been the weakest link. The one with excuses. With injuries. With unfinished races." His eyes harden. "Your brothers built reputations. I built an empire. And you—what have you done? Collected pity trophies? Wasted potential?"
My stomach drops. The words land like knives, sharper than anything he's ever thrown in public.
Theo's chair scrapes hard against the floor as he lurches forward, fists slamming onto the table. "Don't you dare talk to her like that. Not here. Not ever."
"Careful," Dad says coolly, though there's a flicker in his eyes.
"No, you be careful," Theo snaps. "She's done more than you'll ever admit, and you know it."
Flynn, usually ice himself, finally cuts in, voice low but dangerous. "Enough. You want to tear into someone, tear into me. But you don't get to sit here and humiliate her in front of us."
Dad's stare flicks between them, cold fury simmering. "Typical," he sneers. "The great protectors. Always stepping in, always shielding her. That's why she's weak—because none of you ever made her face reality."
Before I can even process it, Sean's voice cuts across the table, calm but firm, every syllable deliberate. "She's the most determined and the strongest person I know." His gaze doesn't waver, locked on my father's. "And if you can't see that, then maybe you're not the man she—or her brothers—should be looking up to."
The table goes dead silent. Even Theo stops breathing for a second.
Dad leans back slowly, wine glass poised in his hand, his smile thin and cruel. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But guts don't win cases. And they don't build legacies. You'll learn, boy."
Sean doesn't blink. Doesn't rise to it. Instead, his hand tightens around mine under the table, steady and deliberate. Then he pushes his chair back, the scrape loud enough to make half the bistro glance our way.
"That's enough," he says, calm but final. His eyes flick to me, then back to Dad. "We're done here."
My heart stutters. "Sean—"
He stands, never letting go of my hand, and pulls me gently up with him. "You don't get to tear her down just because you can," he adds, voice low but edged. "Not tonight. Not ever."
The table freezes. Theo's jaw drops, then slowly curves into something dangerously close to pride. Flynn exhales through his nose, sharp, like he'd been holding it in for too long. Dad's face, though, stays carved from stone.
"You walk away now," Dad says softly, "and it'll prove exactly what I said. Weakness. Running instead of standing your ground."
Sean doesn't flinch. "No. It proves I know when the fight's not worth it." His thumb brushes across my knuckles, grounding me. "And she's worth more than sitting here letting you play god."
The words hit me like a blow, but the good kind—the kind that makes my chest ache with something fierce and bright.
For once, I don't care about the stares around us. I let him lead me from the table, my pulse racing, my head spinning.
Because in this moment, I realize—Sean isn't just standing up to my father. He's standing with me.
〰️〰️〰️
The night air hits me like a slap the second we step outside. Cool, sharp, too real after the suffocating heat of the bistro. My chest is tight, my breaths coming fast, shallow. I feel like I just ran a 400m without a starting gun.
"Ryan." Sean's voice is steady, low, the kind of voice that pulls me back from cliffs I don't realize I'm standing on. He doesn't let go of my hand. He never does.
I shake my head, blinking hard. "God. He's impossible. He always has to win. Always has to make me feel like—like I'm nothing." My throat burns. "And he does it so easily. Like it's a reflex."
Sean stops us right by the valet stand, turning me so I'm facing him. His hands come up, cupping my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't even realize were there. "Hey. Look at me."
I do, though my vision is blurry.
"You're not nothing," he says, fierce now. "You're everything. You hear me? He can't take that from you."
A sob escapes me, half-choked, half-laughed, because only Sean could make it sound that simple. That true.
I press my forehead to his chest, breathing in sweat and cologne and something that's just him. He holds me tight, his heartbeat steady under my ear. The chaos, the humiliation, the ache—it all feels smaller in his arms.
"I hate that he can still get to me like this," I whisper.
"He doesn't get to win," Sean murmurs into my hair. "Not when you've got me."
The valet clears his throat politely but Sean doesn't rush me. He just keeps my hand in his, thumb brushing slow circles over my knuckles. Every touch says the same thing: you're not alone, not tonight.
We stop near the car, valet waiting a polite distance away. Sean turns, tilting his head to catch my eyes. "Can I ask you something?"
My throat is raw, but I nod.
He hesitates, careful. "Do you even want to intern at Goldman this summer?"
The question steals the air from my lungs more than anything Dad said tonight. I open my mouth, close it again. The easy answer—the one I've been giving to professors, teammates, even myself—dies on my tongue.
It takes everything in me to finally admit it. "I've been chasing unrealistic expectations just to please him. To prove something. And tonight, he made it so clear—it's never going to be enough. No matter what I do." My voice cracks. "And maybe... maybe I don't even know who I am without constantly trying to prove myself as a McKenna. Without chasing this image he built for me."
Sean doesn't speak. He just watches me, steady and patient, waiting for me to finish.
I swallow, the words heavy but freeing as they leave me. "Not really," I whisper.
For a moment, the only sound is the soft hum of traffic down the street.
Then Sean steps closer, cupping my face with both hands. His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm and grounding. "Then screw Goldman. Screw all of it. What matters is what you want, Ry. Not him. Not anyone else. Just you."
My eyes sting again, but this time it isn't anger or humiliation—it's relief. The first drop of it in what feels like years.
I lean into him, exhaling shakily. "What if I don't know what I want?"
"Then we figure it out," he murmurs. "Together. You don't have to have all the answers right now. You just have to give yourself permission to ask the questions."
The valet coughs softly again, holding the keys out like he's intruding on something holy. Sean takes them, sliding his arm around my shoulders as he guides me into the car.
And for the first time tonight, I feel lighter. Not because my dad changed, but because maybe—I finally did.