Hanrot turned back to the bar cart. Picked up his glass. Poured himself another scotch with the kind of careful precision that suggested he was buying time. Ice clinking softly, liquid amber catching the light. He took his time. Two fingers. Three. Four. Then stopped. Set the decanter down.
"Welcome home, sweetheart," he said without turning around. His voice was controlled. Measured. The voice of a man who'd had this conversation in his head a hundred times and knew exactly how it would go. "London treating you well?"
"Don't." She stalked toward him, fury radiating off her in waves that Coy could practically feel from across the room. "Don't you dare 'welcome home' me like this is some normal father-daughter reunion. A bodyguard? You assigned me a bodyguard? Without even asking?"
Hanrot finally turned to face her. Took a slow sip of his scotch. "I'm your father. I don't need to ask."
"I'm twenty years old!"
"Twenty-one." Hanrot corrected mildly. "And yes, that's exactly why you need protection."
"I'm an adult. I don't need—"
"This city isn't London, Norah." His voice was still calm but there was steel underneath now. The kind of steel that had built empires and destroyed enemies. "You've been gone three years. Things have changed."
"I know this city better than you think."
Something flickered in Hanrot's eyes. Fast. Dark. Gone before Coy could properly identify it, but it looked like worry. Or fear. Or maybe both.
"That's what worries me," Hanrot said quietly.
Norah's jaw tightened. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're my daughter." Hanrot set his glass down with a sharp clink against the mahogany bar cart. The sound echoed in the study, sharp as a gunshot. "It means there are people in this city who would love to get their hands on you just to hurt me. It means there are debts and territories and wars that you don't understand and don't need to understand. It means—" He stopped. Took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was harder. Final. "—you don't get a choice in this."
"So what, he follows me everywhere?" She gestured sharply toward Coy without looking at him. Like he was furniture. An object. A problem. "Classes? Parties? The bathroom?"
"Everywhere that matters," Hanrot said.
"Define 'matters.'"
"Everywhere I tell him to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting." Hanrot picked up his glass again. Swirled the scotch. Watched the ice spin. "Coy's one of the best. You should be grateful."
"Grateful?" Norah laughed, and it was that same wild sound from the car. The sound of someone who'd moved past anger into something more dangerous. Hysteria. Desperation. The kind of laughter that came right before tears or violence. "You pull me out of London with zero warning, drag me back to this nightmare of a city, stick me in university like I'm some normal girl with normal problems, and expect gratitude?"
"I expect obedience."
The word hung in the air like a knife.
Like a threat.
Like a door slamming shut on any possibility of negotiation.
Coy kept his expression neutral but he felt the shift in the room. The temperature dropping. The air getting thinner. This was the moment where things either de-escalated or went nuclear, and from the look on Norah's face, nuclear was looking pretty likely.
She went very still. That particular kind of stillness that meant someone was deciding whether to scream or cry or throw something. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her jaw worked. Her hands opened and closed.
When she finally spoke, her voice was dangerously quiet. The kind of quiet that was more frightening than shouting.
"I'm not one of your men."
"No." Hanrot stepped closer to his daughter. Closed the distance between them. And for the first time since Coy had met him, he saw something that might have been pain cross the older man's face. Genuine emotion breaking through the carefully constructed armor of wealth and power and control. "You're better than them. You're my blood. You're the only thing in this world that matters to me. Which is why I can't lose you."
"You don't have me to lose."
The words hit Hanrot like a physical blow. Coy saw him flinch. Actually flinch. Just slightly, just for a second, but it was there.
"Norah—"
"No." She backed away, shaking her head. Her voice was rising now, control slipping. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to send me away for three years—three years, Dad—barely call, barely exist in my life except for monthly wire transfers and the occasional 'how are your classes' text, and then suddenly decide you're Father of the Year because it's convenient for you."
"It wasn't safe for you here."
"And now it is?" She threw her arms out. "What changed, Dad? What the hell changed that you need me back so badly you'd assign me a shadow?" She flung a hand toward Coy again without looking at him.
Hanrot's silence was answer enough.
Coy watched the realization dawn on Norah's face. Watched her eyes widen. Watched her take a step back like she'd been pushed.
"Oh my God," she said. Her voice had gone quiet again. Hollow. "Something happened. What happened?"
"Nothing you need to worry about."
"Dad—"
"The Velvet gang has been making moves," Hanrot cut her off. His voice was flat now. Businesslike. The emotion locked away again. "After what happened with Moor last year... tensions are high. Territory disputes. Power vacuums. The kind of chaos that makes people desperate. I'm not taking chances with you."