Your Girlfriend Calls Me Daddy-Chapter 56 | Virgin Killer vs. The Stark Family Pride

She blinked once. The casual delivery had gotten through the armor somehow, the complete absence of shame or performance in how I said it, and she hadn’t been ready for that specific version of me.

"You’re insufferable," she said.

"I’ve been told."

"You have been here three days and you have already developed a reputation that any reasonable person would find embarrassing."

"Any reasonable person," I agreed, giving her the words back without the judgment she’d loaded into them. "Is that what you are?"

"Unlike you, yes."

"You came to a fitting appointment you didn’t need, carrying a portfolio full of combat analysis on people you’ve known for seventy-two hours, specifically to inform me you were planning to humiliate me in front of the class on Friday." I kept my voice easy. I kept my eyes on hers and didn’t look away from them, which was its own kind of pressure. "Reasonable people don’t do that. Reasonable people go home and think about it privately and decide it isn’t worth the energy."

Something had changed in her breathing. Not the way it changed in Mera, not the open and unguarded way Cheon’s had when she lost track of herself for three seconds. This was considerably more controlled. A slight adjustment in the rhythm of it, the kind of almost-nothing that happened when someone’s body had already registered a signal and was quietly recalibrating before the brain finished deciding whether to grant permission.

I had not moved for the last ten seconds. I did not need to. Three meters had been enough for it to start working at full frequency, and Noel Stark was currently standing inside that radius and her Essentia defenses, however good they were, operated on the same frequencies as everyone else’s.

The ability found what was already there and turned it up.

I genuinely had no idea what was already there, in Noel Stark’s case. I had a suspicion, based on the years-long grudge and the particular heat behind her contempt and the way she had looked at me in my costume before the performance replaced the reaction. But suspicion was not certainty.

What I could observe was this: her chin had come down by one degree. Her portfolio was pressed against her chest with both arms, which was new, because she had been holding it at her side for the previous three minutes. She was looking at my face with the fixed attention of someone trying very hard to maintain eye contact rather than letting it drift somewhere less controlled.

She took a step toward me.

Then she stopped.

Then she looked up.

I was six foot one. She was five one in heels. The geometry of it required a fairly committed upward angle from her end. I watched her register this, watched something cross her expression that I could not fully name, something caught between fury and something it did not want to be.

"You’re enjoying this," she said.

"Somewhat," I said.

"You think this is funny."

"I think you’re putting a lot of effort into convincing someone you’re not nervous." I let that land. "That’s a specific kind of effort."

Her free hand came up. Not toward me, not a reach, just a single finger leveled at the center of my chest with the controlled force of someone who had three better options and was choosing the restrained one on principle. The portfolio stayed pinned against her with the other arm. Her nail was perfect. Her hand was not quite steady.

"I am going to take you apart on Friday, D’Angelo. In front of every scout and every agency representative in that building, with all of them watching, I am going to dismantle you so thoroughly that the only thing left to discuss is why anyone ever thought you belonged in the same room as me. And when it’s done," her finger didn’t drop, "you are going to understand, finally, exactly what you dismissed."

There it was.

Finally. She had said finally with the weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.

I looked at her and thought about a corporate event and a small girl with a then-boyish haircut and a careless boy who had not looked twice. I thought about what it cost to carry something like that, to hold it so carefully it became a plan, to bring it intact all the way to Coastline’s first-year combat trials.

"I know what I dismissed," I said, quietly enough that it was not a performance. "I’m looking at her."

Noel Stark’s breath caught.

It was small. A fraction of a second. The kind of catch that happens before the body’s control systems engage and smooth it over.

She took a step back.

Then another.

Her portfolio came up higher against her chest. Her eyes had gone to a different quality of sharp, not the cold analysis sharp, something less managed and more immediate. She looked at me the way people looked at things they had not prepared to find dangerous.

"I’ll see you Friday," she said.

Her voice was steady. Her heels were already moving, turning toward the back bay and Hargrave’s assistant and the exit from this specific conversation.

"Short Stack," I said.

She stopped. Her back was to me.

"You’re going to be extraordinary at this." I meant it. The portfolio full of combat analysis, the years of contained purpose, the way she had stood in this room and looked at me like she was already two steps ahead, all of it pointed at someone who was going to be genuinely dangerous in four years and probably terrifying in eight.

"You know that already. But you’re going to come in third on Friday because you’re fighting the wrong war."

A long pause.

She walked into the back bay without turning around.

I stood in the fabrication lab in a costume my father had sent to manage my optics, and I thought about the original Rome D’Angelo, that careless brilliant piece of work who had walked through this life breaking things without registering they were breakable, and I thought that I genuinely owed about a dozen people a significant apology for actions I had not personally taken.

The math on this was getting complicated.