Atrium, the three-Michelin-star restaurant my father has picked for our “catch up”, is one of those “see and be seen” type places—all glass, obviously, so that the peasants outside on Columbus Circle can witness the grand, glamorous lives of the rich and privileged.
Naturally, Leonard’s booked a window seat.
He’s already there when I arrive—perfect posture, cufflinks gleaming in the early afternoon sun, the New York skyline and Central Park framing him like a campaign ad.
There’s a good chance…I figure, oh, about seventy percent…that someone will be taking pictures of us during this lunch for a campaign ad.
Dad smiles as I approach. Not warmly. Not like a father seeing his daughter for the first time in weeks. Just a poised, practiced smile.
For the cameras.
He stands just long enough to offer me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Then he’s back in his seat, napkin folded across his lap with robotic precision. I’m not blind to the flash of cameras outside on the street, followed by the rapid click-click-click of a professional camera somewhere behind us in the restaurant.
Yep, raising those campaign ad photo-op odds to one hundred percent.
He looks good, I’ll give him that. Every hair in place, shirt collar crisp, watch gleaming. He works out religiously, has done so my entire life. Eats at the same time every day. Sleeps exactly seven hours a night.
Leonard Kim has always treated life like a machine—perfect inputs leading to flawless outcomes. But somewhere along the way, he stopped treating me like part of the equation.
I sit, legs crossed, hands folded prettily in my lap, trying not to feel the sting of memories.
When I was little, he’d scoop me up in those strong arms, lifting me high in the air and twirling me around until I screamed with laughter. Mom would pretend to scold him from the hallway, her hair still pinned up from rehearsal, her voice filled with quiet joy.
Corinne Kim.
She was a dancer long before she was a politician’s wife. A wonderful one—trained at Juilliard, invited to join the Joffrey. And then she gave it all up for him.
Mom was the glue, and when she died, something cracked in both of us, though we never said it out loud. Without her, all Dad saw when he looked at me was a living, breathing grief he didn’t want to carry.
He lets the silence linger just long enough for me to squirm.
I don’t.
Leonard smiles again—smooth, practiced, like he always does during press junkets and donor brunches. The kind of smile that looks good in photos because it never wrinkles the corners of the eyes.
“Well,” he says casually, meticulously adjusting his cuffs. “I suppose I should say congratulations.”
My stomach clenches. “For?”
His brows lift, faux-surprised. “For becoming the media’s favorite mystery girlfriend du jour.”
There it is.
Straight to the point, now that the photo op has been secured.
He turns his water glass meditatively between his fingers. “Do you know how many calls I got this morning, Naomi? How many aides asking for statements? The level of damage control I had to implement?”
I keep my back straight, my face calm. “I didn’t realize your staff managed your daughter’s personal life.”
“They do when it’s on the front page of the New York Globe,” he says, still smiling.
I swallow, eyeing him.
“You’re angry because of your reputation.”
“Do I look angry?”
“No, because the cameras are right outside. It’s not like I’ve forgotten how you operate, Dad,” I sigh.
“No, just your good sense,” he says tightly, still smiling for the fucking cameras. “You know, it wasn’t exactly on my schedule to fly to New York today.”
“So sorry to inconvenience you,” I hiss through clenched teeth, starting to stand.
Dad’s hand lands on forearm, just heavily enough to get my attention.
“Sit, Naomi.”
I glare at him.
“Please,” he adds.
I do.
“I supposed it also wasn’t on your schedule to call me back?” I fire back. “Text me? Even have someone else text me pretending to be you?”
He draws a deep breath. “Naomi, it’s been a busy transitional period for me. You know how demanding something can be when you’re fully committed to it.” He directs a perfect, capped smile at me. “You have your dancing, I have my career, which…” He chuckles. “Feels a lot like dancing at times. Perhaps we’re more alike than we realize.”
Yeah, we’re not.
Dad takes another slow breath. “What are you doing with that man, Naomi?”
“I don’t think that’s a conversion a father wants to have with his daughter, is it?”
That’s way beyond anything I would normally say, especially to him. But I say it anyway, just to try to get some reaction other than that fake, phony smile.
For second, there’s the smallest crack in his facade: a small flicker of disgust in his eyes, his lips turning down just a little as he grits his teeth.
I’ll call it a win, even if he fixes it immediately.
“You’re smarter than this, Naomi.”
The insult wrapped in silk. The tactic he’s always used to get me back in line.
“You really thought there wouldn’t be consequences to being seen with someone like him? Naomi, Nico Barone is—”
Fire flares in my chest.
“I know who he is.”
His smile doesn’t waver. But his voice drops. “Then act like it.”
I take a breath. Hold it. Let it out.
And then the question I wasn’t even sure I was going to have the courage to ask comes rattling right out, too.
“Did you have anything to do with the bombing at the Barone house?”
Dad’s smile freezes for a beat too long.
Then it rearranges itself back into place like it never cracked.
“If that’s a joke, I’m not sure I quite understand it,” he says, voice lighter than it should be.
“What if it’s not?” I say pointedly. “A joke, I mean.”
Dad’s brow furrows deeply. “Christ, Naomi. Do you honestly think I’m capable of something like that?”
“I didn’t say you were,” I reply. “I asked if you had anything to do with it.”
Leonard leans back, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Naomi, really—”
The waiter approaches, menus in hand, hovering like he’s afraid to interrupt. Leonard smiles at him warmly and confidently, like nothing’s wrong at all.
“We’ll need another moment,” he says kindly. The waiter nods and backs away.
Leonard’s eyes return to me.
“I would never be involved in anything so unsavory. You know that.”
“Do I?” I ask quietly.
He sighs, like I’ve inconvenienced him with the question. “Let’s pretend, for the sake of argument, that I am,” he says, shaking his head. “Let’s say I’m secretly a deranged, blood-spilling criminal…” He smiles icily. “Like your boyfriend.”
I grit my teeth.
“Even assuming all that, we’re still faced with the reality that I’ve just been appointed to a goddamn Cabinet seat, Naomi. Do you understand what kind of scrutiny I’m under? Do you really think I’d risk my entire career by playing games with a family like the Barones?”
“Just answer the question,” I say. “Did you or did you not have anything to do with the Syndicate attack?”
Leonard’s eyes flash for a second. Then he exhales and shakes his head, like I’m a child who doesn’t understand how the world works.
“Politics is a dirty business,” he says softly. “You’re old enough now, Naomi, to understand that.” His eyes lance into me. “But I would never—never, in a million years—be involved with a group like the Obsidian Syndicate.”
Everything inside me goes still.
I think my pulse actually stops for a beat as reality shifts and tilts.
I never said “obsidian”. Only “syndicate.”
But he did.
It’s like an icy blade sliding between my ribs.
I feel myself go cold, muscles tensing as I try to suppress the shiver rippling down my spine. My fingers tighten in my lap.
Dad doesn’t seem to notice.
His voice softens again.
“I appreciate this thing with Nico might be thrilling or feel dangerous. But don’t let it confuse you or shake you from who you are. Look, I can’t tell you who to date or not date. But if nothing else, think of your damn future! After dance is over, you’ll have a whole other career just waiting for you.”
When my lips purse, he takes it as confusion, even though I know exactly what he’s talking about.
“Can you imagine the leg up you’ll have, being my daughter? With our last name, power, and connections? You could skip the local stuff and go straight into a national race, Naomi. You could be a congresswoman at twenty-five, for God’s sake. Think of the doors that would open for you!”
My God.
In that moment, I see everything I’ve tried not to admit.
The man sitting across from me isn’t just a politician. Not merely a bad father.
He’s a man who lies so well he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. There is no right or wrong, just the path forward that he’s laid out to meet his own ends and goals.
Slowly, I fold my napkin and place it beside my untouched glass.
Dad is still talking. I’m no longer listening.
He’s gone back to the usual script—political concern, fatherly disappointment, words that sound like care but feel like a lecture. This is a PR rehearsal, not love.
When I stand he finally stops, his brows knitting.
“Naomi,” he says quietly. “Don’t overreact. This doesn’t have to be anything.”
“You’re right,” I say softly. “It doesn’t.”
I turn and walk out of the restaurant without looking back.
Outside, the air hits like ice. I don’t realize how hard I’m shaking until I reach out and press a palm against the cold glass of the building next to the restaurant to ground myself.
It’s not just the lie. It’s the way he said it.
I turn and start to walk aimlessly. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know what I’m walking away from.
I wanted so badly to believe that the man who used to spin me around in the kitchen and let me fall asleep on his chest during late-night debates was still there.
But he’s gone. Maybe he died with my mother.
He’s not my father anymore.
Just another lie I grew up believing in.
