Chapter 170

Chapter 170
Beckeet's POV

"Thanks," I managed, unsure how to respond to this unfamiliar version of my father.

"I also saw your criticism of Blackwood's Wildfire project," he continued, his tone shifting slightly. "That was... unexpected."

I closed my eyes briefly. "About that. It wasn't what it seemed."

"Explain."

Even in this new, approving mode, my father still had the ability to make a single word sound like a command.

"Chloe Sinclair approached me," I said, choosing my words carefully despite the fog of pain. "She suggested a... partnership. Said as long as the Wildfire is ruined, Willow will come back to me."

My father's eyebrows rose. "And you believed her?"

"She kissed me with the same face as Willow." I shifted slightly and winced at the resulting pain. "It was... disorienting. Like getting everything I wanted, but wrong somehow."

I paused, the memories flooding back despite my best efforts to suppress them. "At Wildfire's opening ceremony, I showed my affection to Willow and then..." I hesitated, embarrassed to admit it even now, "Damian hit me in front of everyone. I was humiliated. Angry."

My father's expression darkened. "I know about that farce. You shouldn't have done that back then." His voice was stern but not unkind. "You declared your love for her in front of half of Los Angeles' elite. No man would allow his woman to be publicly claimed by another man, especially not someone like Damian Blackwood."

"After I left the opening ceremony," I admitted. "I was dead drunk on the street and then came across a group of scoundrels. I got into a fight with them."

Understanding dawned on his face, but not the kind I'd hoped for. He was seeing the truth—that I hadn't been the noble protector I'd pretended to be.

"And afterward?" he prompted.

"And then Chloe appeared." The bitterness in my voice surprised even me. "She helped me drive away those scoundrels and invited me to cooperate with her. Once the plan succeeded, Willow would come back to me."

My father shook his head slowly, disappointment evident. "So you deliberately sabotaged a major business project because of wounded pride and manipulation."

"But your campaign against Wildfire wasn't about protecting Willow at all," my father said quietly. "It was revenge against Blackwood. And a way to get her attention."

I closed my eyes, shame washing over me. "Yes," I whispered. "I told myself I was doing it for her. That she needed to be saved from him. But really, I was just... obsessed. Hurt. Jealous."

The honesty of the statement hung between us. My father had never been one for discussing emotions, especially not romantic ones.

To my surprise, he nodded slowly. "The Clark girl. Willow. She means a great deal to you."

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes."

"Enough to take a bullet for her, apparently." He studied me with those penetrating eyes that had intimidated business rivals for decades. "You're in love with her."

Again, not a question.

"We've been friends for long, she danced and I rapped," I said, too tired and in too much pain to dissemble. "I feel like we are a perfect match. I didn't even realize that I was in love with her."

I wasn't sure if it was the medication or the near-death experience, but I found myself continuing. "When I saw that gun pointed at her... there wasn't even a choice to make. It was like gravity."

My father was quiet for a moment. Then he said something that shocked me even more than his earlier praise.

"I was wrong to warn you away from her."

I stared at him, wondering if I was hallucinating again. My jaw actually dropped, and for a moment I forgot about the pain in my chest.

"You told me to stay away from her," I reminded him, disbelief evident in my voice. "That she was Damian's woman and would make the relationship between Blackwoods and Wilders bad." The words had been burned into my memory from our argument earlier.

"I was wrong," he repeated, the admission clearly costing him something. I watched in fascination as he struggled with his pride – something I'd rarely witnessed. "I judged her without knowing her. And I underestimated you."

He straightened in his chair, his expression more open than I could remember seeing it since my mother died. "The way you've built your music career on your own terms. The courage you showed tonight. These aren't the actions of the son I was worried about."

I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. My father – Jefferson Wilder, who had spent years disapproving of virtually everything I did – was not only praising me but reversing his position on the woman I loved.

He leaned forward. "If this woman is important to you, then you should fight for her. Even if that means competing with Damian Blackwood."

"Fight for her?" I echoed, still processing his words.

"Yes. The Wilders don't back down from a challenge." There was a glint in his eye that I recognized – the same look he got when facing down business rivals. "If you truly love her, don't let Blackwood take what matters to you."

I closed my eyes, processing this complete reversal from my father. All my life, I'd sought his approval, his recognition. Now that I had it, I found myself with an unexpected reaction.

"Dad," I said, opening my eyes to look at him directly. "I appreciate what you're saying. More than you know. But..."

"But what?"

"I think I need some time. To figure things out." I gestured vaguely with my good arm. "When I can get out of here, I want to go somewhere. Travel a bit. Clear my head."

My father's brow furrowed in confusion. "You're not going to pursue her? After everything?" He looked genuinely perplexed, as though I'd just refused an obvious business opportunity. "Son, you just took a bullet for this woman."

The nurse returned with pain medication, giving me a moment to consider how to respond. As the medication began to take effect, dulling the sharp edges of my pain, I found myself smiling slightly.

"It's complicated," I said finally. "I need to make some decisions. Important ones."

My father clearly wanted to press further, but something in my expression must have stopped him. Instead, he stood, straightening his jacket in that habitual gesture I'd seen thousands of times.

"Get some rest," he said. "We can talk more tomorrow." He paused at the door, his expression softer than I'd seen it in years. "I'm glad you're alive, son."

After he left, I stared at the ceiling, thoughts swirling despite the medication. My father's approval. The bullet. Willow's face as I fell. The words I'd spoken, believing they might be my last.

I had decisions to make, alright. But not the ones my father thought.