CHAPTER 74: THE CALL

Nicholas was whistling.

Actually whistling—an old Sinatra tune, barely audible as he shrugged into his crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled casually at the elbows. His cufflinks sat forgotten on the nightstand; he didn’t need them today. Not when he was still tasting Ella on his lips, still feeling the softness of her thighs tangled around his hips when he closed his eyes.

Christ, she was something else.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—hair tousled, lips slightly red, and, for the first time in months, a glimmer of something light behind his usually sharp, cold gaze.

His phone buzzed on the dresser, but he ignored it at first, too focused on tucking his shirt, smoothing the material over his abs, running a hand over his jaw where her nails had left faint pink lines.

Ella’s soft laugh still echoed in his ears, that sleepy sound she made when he kissed her shoulder before getting out of bed. "You’re annoying, you know that?" she’d teased him when he kissed her five times in a row just to hear her giggle.

And God, the way she looked in his shirt...

Another buzz, more insistent this time.

Nick picked it up, smiling faintly, expecting one of his staff, maybe Tony calling about security details, or his assistant asking about his schedule.

Instead, FATHER flashed on the screen in sharp white letters.

Smile gone.

For a moment, he considered not answering. It wouldn’t be the first time. But then, with a resigned sigh, he accepted the call, pressing the phone to his ear with two fingers like it was something dirty.

"Father."

"Nicholas."

Even that single word, sharp and clipped, was enough to wipe out the warmth he carried from Ella’s bed like someone dumping ice water on him.

"Are you enjoying your little circus show?" his father continued, voice cool, aristocratic, the kind of voice that didn’t askquestions but expected obedience.

Nicholas glanced out his penthouse window, the city stretching like glass and steel below him. "You’ll have to be more specific."

"Don’t play games with me. The tabloids, Nicholas. Your face. Plastered everywhere this morning like a second-rate soap actor."

Nicholas could practically hear the disgust dripping off the man’s tongue, as if just speaking to him was a favor.

He sank into the leather chair by the window, stretching his legs out like he didn’t have a care in the world. "You don’t usually keep up with tabloids. New hobby?"

"Who is she?"

There it was.

Straight to it. Typical of his father. Cut the heart out before anyone else could touch it.

Nicholas’s jaw tightened, just slightly. "None of your concern."

"I don’t think you quite understand your position."

"Oh, I do," Nick drawled lazily, spinning the phone between his fingers. "Perfectly. The black sheep of the great Carter family. The disappointing son who doesn’t bow to Daddy’s every command. I’ve read this script before."

His father’s voice dropped into something lethal. "Don’t test me."

The smile that curved Nicholas’s lips didn’t reach his eyes. "You’re the one who called me, remember?"

There was a pause, but not hesitation—calculation.

"Your marriage," his father said finally, tone like acid, "has been arranged. Set. Agreed upon by both families. Contracts signed. You know that."

Nicholas closed his eyes briefly. God, the same damn speech. Over and over. Wealthy heiress. Merging empires. Saving the family’s image.

"Tell me," he murmured. "Do I get a say at any point? Or do I just show up like a good dog?"

"You don’t have to like it," his father snapped. "You will do it. It’s your responsibility."

Nick’s knuckles whitened around the phone. "I’m not marrying some polished porcelain doll so you can secure another f***ing board seat, old man."

There it was—the crack in his composure.

"You will marry Sofia Lombardi, or you’ll lose everything I’ve given you."

The words hung between them like poison.

Nicholas let out a slow breath, his tone turning colder than it had been all morning. "Everything you’ve given me?"

"Yes."

Silence.

Nicholas smiled bitterly. "Let’s get one thing straight—I built my company without you. I don’t need your blood money. I don’t need your fake reputation. And I sure as hell don’t need your approval."

"Nicholas—"

"I’ve been on my own since the day you taught me that love is just another word you use to manipulate people."

Silence again.

For once, his father didn’t have a ready reply.

"You’re delusional," the man bit out finally. "This girl—whoever she is—will ruin you. You’ll drag our family name through the mud for what? A few nights of distraction?"

Nicholas laughed, sharp, humorless. "You think this is about sex?"

"Isn’t it always with you?"

For a second, Nicholas almost told him the truth. That for once—maybe for the first time—it wasn’t just that. That Ella made him feel something like home. Like a future that wasn’t dictated by boardrooms and forged contracts and photo ops with girls in diamond necklaces pretending to know what his favorite color was.

But he wouldn’t give his father that piece of him.

So instead, he said: "Stay out of it."

His father’s voice lowered dangerously. "You forget yourself."

Nicholas stood, adjusting his sleeves with precision, his reflection a sharp contrast to the mess of emotion roiling in his chest.

"No," he said quietly. "For the first time—I remember exactly who I am."

The line went dead.

Nicholas lowered the phone, jaw clenched.

For a few heartbeats, the coldness wrapped around him like a second skin, familiar, sharp, almost comforting in its cruelty.

But then—

"Nick?"

A soft voice behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.

Ella stood barefoot in his too-big shirt, blinking sleepily, hair a mess, lips pink and kiss-bitten, completely unaware that she looked better than any heiress his father could purchase with influence or wealth.

"I thought you left," she whispered.

The tension in his chest loosened. Just like that.

He crossed the room in three long strides, cupped her face gently between his palms, and kissed her forehead.

"I’m right here," he said softly.