Page 50 of His Daughter

"I didn't ask for your help."

"No. You never do. That's the problem."

"Stay out of my personal life, Declan." My voice was quiet. "It doesn't involve you."

FOURTEEN

DECLAN

Left hook. Right cross. Left.

The bag swung. I followed it.

Stay out of my personal life, Declan. It doesn't involve you.

I hit it again before it came back, driving my fist into the leather with a force that traveled up my arm and into my shoulder and sat there, burning.

I offered to help. That's what I did. That's the one thing I knew how to do — see a problem, produce a solution. But Thea Calloway was a different type of woman. She looked at me like I'd tried to buy her.

Left. Left. Right.

I was angry. I was confused. I was standing on the wrong side of a line I didn't draw. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do.

I stopped, pressed my forehead against the bag, and breathed. I straightened up, unwrapped the tape, and looked at my knuckles — raw, red, the skin split on the left.

I made a decision there and then. I was going to do everything but stay out of her life.

The Vanguard was already humming when I stepped off the elevator. Julian was in my office. He was in the chair across from my desk, legs crossed, a folder open on his knee. He looked up when I walked in.

"The Caine sit-down is at two. Their turf last time, ours today. I've got the revised term sheet and the…" He stopped and tilted his head. "What's wrong with you?"

I frowned and marched to my chair. "Nothing."

"It’s not nothing." He closed the folder. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

My frown deepened. “Are you begging to be tossed out on your ass?”

“Ha! Give it your best shot. I’d love to see you try.”

I sat behind my desk, pulled the Roland Caine file toward me, and opened it. The numbers blurred. "The Caine revenue projections," I said. "What's the run rate on the streaming platform?"

He eyed me for a beat, but he answered anyway. "Four hundred thousand subscribers at a forty-dollar annual price point. Sixteen million top-line. But that's not what I asked you."

"The podcast network. What's the advertising Cost Per Mille (CPM) across the — "

"Declan." I looked up. Julian's hazel eyes were steady. The grin was gone. "What happened?"

I leaned back and rubbed the back of my neck. "I offered to help with her nonprofit, and she shut me down. Now, can we get back to business?"

“She gives you a hard time?”

I shrugged. “Pretty much.”

Julian was quiet for a moment. He uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. His fingers tapped the folder once. "So she's the first person in your life who doesn't want your money. And you're confused because you don't know what else to offer."

Well, that was accurate. Providing was the only language I spoke. She just told me she didn't need a translator.

"So what do I do?"