Your phone vibrates on the nightstand, the screen illuminating the dimly lit room. You reach for it with mild curiosity, expecting a message from Pansy or maybe Theo, but when you see the name flashing across the screen, your breath catches.

Mattheo.

I need you.

The words are simple, but they hit like a punch to the gut. Because no matter how much he’s hurt you, no matter how complicated things have become, there’s still that part of you—stupid, reckless, hopeless—that wants to respond immediately.

Instead, you let out a frustrated sigh and type back before you can stop yourself.

I need someone that has a dad that’s not trying to kill me. Is that really the bare minimum these days???

You hit send and stare at the screen, half-expecting him to ignore your sarcasm, half-hoping he’ll have something smart to say in return.

The three little dots appear almost instantly, and you can practically picture him on the other end—brows furrowed, lip caught between his teeth, probably pacing like he always does when something gets under his skin.

Then, his response pops up.

Come on, princess. My father wants to kiII everyone. Don't take it personally.

You groan, flopping back onto your pillows. Of course he’d find a way to downplay the situation.

Before you can fire back, another message appears.

Besides, I’m not my father. You know that.

And damn it—damn it—you do.

That’s the problem.