Cyrus
My father’s the kind of man who treats golf like it’s war—strategic, ruthless, all about the long game. Which is probably why I’ve been spending so much damn time with him lately.
The crisp thwack of the ball echoes across the green as I finish my swing. He watches, expression unreadable, like he’s calculating whether I’ll ever be worth the empire he built.
“I have a girl to introduce to you,” I say, voice smooth, calculated.
He smirks faintly, lining up his own shot. “Well, I’m just hoping it’s not someone your brother’s already—”
“She’s different,” I cut in, letting a low chuckle escape.
“Oh?” he murmurs, swinging. The ball sails perfectly down the fairway. “Different how?”
I roll my shoulders, leaning on my club like it’s a casual topic, even though I’ve been thinking about
