2

Dolores.

The breakfast settles warm in my stomach as I pull onto my street, fighting back another yawn. My bed's calling - fourteen hours of other people's emergencies have left me dreaming of my memory foam mattress and blackout curtains.

My house comes into view, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Two Harleys are parked in my driveway. Their chrome gleams in the morning sun, both bikes obviously well-maintained despite the road dust coating them.

Two men stand on my front porch like they own it. Their arms crossed over their chests. One's got a scraggly beard that needs serious maintenance, while the other's sporting a buzzcut that emphasizes a nasty scar running along his temple. No Kutte's, just black t-shirts, which is odd.

"What the hell?" I mutter, slowing my Jeep to a crawl.

My phone sits heavy in my pocket. Dad's number is on speed dial, but something stops me from reaching for it. Club business has never shown up at my door. But Dad always told me to be prepared.

The men haven't moved, but their eyes track my vehicle. My stomach churns, and it's not from Mae's eggs. Something's wrong. Dad would've warned me if he was sending anyone. He always warns me.

I slide out of my Jeep, my boots hitting the concrete with purpose. The way these men carry themselves speaks volumes. Club men, through and through.

"Miss Spencer." The one with the buzzcut steps forward, his hand extended. "I'm Titan. This is Ridge. We're from your father's chapter."

My stomach drops at the formality in his voice. Dad's boys never called me 'Miss Spencer.' It was always 'Little James' or 'Princess.'

"What's wrong?" The words scratch against my throat.

Ridge shifts his weight, his boots scuffing against my porch steps. "Maybe we should go inside-"

"Tell me." My keys dig into my palm. "Here. Now."

Titan's adam's apple bobs. "Your father... he passed last night. Heart attack. Doc says it was quick, he didn't suffer."

The world tilts sideways for a moment. My keys clatter to the ground, but I remain standing. Dad's voice echoes in my head: "Stand tall, baby girl. No matter what life throws at you."

"When?" My voice doesn't shake. I won't let it.

"Around midnight." Ridge's voice is gentle, almost apologetic. "We came straight here. Figured you should hear it in person, not over the phone."

I nod, mechanical. Professional. Like I'm at work, dealing with someone else's tragedy. "The funeral?"

"This weekend." Titan steps closer, but maintains a respectful distance. "At the clubhouse. He always said... he wanted it where it all started."

"I'll be there." The words come automatically. My father's daughter, strong even when breaking. "Thank you for coming to tell me."

"We can stay-" Ridge starts.

"No." I bend down, retrieve my keys. "I need... I just need some time."

They exchange looks, but nod. Respect for the President's daughter, even in their grief.

"The club's here if you need anything," Titan says, reaching into his back pocket. He hands me a card with a number scrawled on it. "Any time, day or night."

The rumble of their bikes fades into the distance as I fumble with my keys, missing the lock twice before managing to get the door open. My boots feel like they're filled with concrete as I step inside, the familiar comfort of my living room now feeling foreign and cold.

A shaft of light cuts through the blinds, catching on the silver frame perched on my bookshelf. There we are - me at six years old, perched proudly on Dad's motorcycle, my tiny hands barely reaching the handlebars. His massive frame towers behind me, those strong arms that always made me feel safe wrapped protectively around my waist. That stupid pink helmet he insisted I wear clashes horribly with his leather cut, but his smile... God, his smile.

My knees give out and I slide down the wall, the cool drywall catching on my uniform shirt. The first sob breaks free, raw and painful, ripping through my chest like barbed wire.

"You weren't supposed to leave yet," I whisper to the photo, my vision blurring. "We had more time. You promised..."

My fingers trace the tattoo on my wrist - a small key, identical to the one hanging from his neck in the photo. "The key to my heart," he'd always say, tapping the charm. "Right next to my baby girl."

Another sob escapes, and this time I don't try to hold it back. The morning light continues to stream through the window, dust motes dancing in the beam, while I curl into myself on the floor of my living room, clutching the frame to my chest.