Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
She hesitates, and nods. “He’s out of pain. I did my best to make him comfortable.”
“Thank you.” I swallow hard.
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“No.” I wave the pathetic crumple of tissues in my hand. “I’m fine.” The nurse doesn’t move, so I add, “I’ll go in in a moment.”
“I called him. Mr. Archer. I didn’t tell him you were here.”
“Oh….thank you.” I don’t quite understand her determined expression, but she looks like she wants to say more.
She draws herself up. “I told him Dr. Laurel wasn’t long for this world, and it was time to notify his next of kin. He told me he’d handle it, and hung up.”
Ah. Good ole Adam, showing his true douche canoe colors. “He’s probably not going to call me.”
“That’s what I suspected. I saw the tabloids today.”
Oh no. “You did?’ I hide my wince.
“I did. And if any man did that to me, I wouldn’t be his fiancée for long.”
I blink at her declaration. “Did...what exactly?” I ask carefully.
“Forced you to have a threesome.” She looks as confused as I feel. “At least that’s what the Herald said.”
“Oh…” A threesome? Dear gods. These reporters have quite the imagination. “Well, you’re right. I’m not his fiancée any more. Gave back the ring and everything.”
She gives a satisfied nod. “Good girl.”
“I told my father the engagement’s off, but didn’t tell him why.”
She mimes locking her lips shut and bustles off.
I wilt against the window. Since when is my life a soap opera? I head back in to my dad, squeezing the back of my neck to wring out the exhaustion.
My dad is sleeping again, his lips parted.
The death rattle starts at dusk. I alternate pacing the floor at the foot of dad’s bed, and sitting by his side, watching the blanket rise and fall. Waiting for the final breath.
My dad’s lips move and his eyes flutter open. “I wish…”
I rush to grab his cup of ice chips, but he refuses. He’s trying to tell me something.
I lean closer. “What, Dad? What do you wish?”
“I wish ... Logan were here.”
Oh. My. Gods.
I glance at my phone, but it’s dead. And Logan probably wouldn’t even pick up if I called.
“I had two sons, one dark, one light. Both were lost. But you…” His head rolls back, his eyes fluttering closed as his throat works soundlessly.
His lips move, his voice creaking, “Want you to...” he heaves for breath and continues, “be happy.”
My eyes burn. “Oh, Dad.”
Finally, after years—after a lifetime—of not communicating, I feel like Dad is finally telling me something true. He’s finally looking at me and seeing me. Talking to me like I’m a real person and not just his creation he can order around.
I see what I couldn’t for so long—my father is far from a perfect man. But it doesn’t mean there isn’t still love between us.
I hold the straw to his mouth again. He takes half a sip of water and chokes out. “You’re so beautiful. My rose bud.”
“No more time. Need you to—” he heaves and coughs, “forgive me.”
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
“It’s not right...what we did to him.”
Chills blast down my arms. “Dad? What did you do?”
“It’s not right,” he murmurs weakly. “Adam said…” He shakes his head and his voice trails off. I fight a scream. All my answers are here.
He clutches my hand. “Make it right.”
“How?” I cry, but his head has dropped back on the pillow and he starts whispering too softly for me to hear. I put my ear by his lips.
“Bella…”
“Belladonna?” I step back and search my dad’s face, but his eyes are closed. He never reopens them, but even unconscious, he continues to whisper one name over and over.
And it’s not his company’s. It’s my mother’s.
“Isabella…Isabella… Bella… Bella, Bella, Bella…”
Thirty-Four
Present Day
Logan
Dr. Laurel’s memorial service is held near Belladonna’s headquarters, in a garden dedicated to patients of Battleman’s.
“He fought tirelessly to save them from the ravages of a cruel disease. A disease that claimed his wife’s life,” intones the priestess.
I lurk on the furthest edge of the crowd at the back, watching Daphne’s dark, huddled figure. She stands alone beside a display of roses, her face lifted to the misting rain. She looks so cold.
The board members are all here, and so is Adam Archer. The question is, why am I here? Just to torment myself?
Did I think I’d feel some sense of victory, standing on the grave of one of the men who participated in my downfall?
I feel nothing for the old man. But my eyes are continually drawn back to Daphne, again and again. She lived her life for her father’s approval for so long. How is she doing now that he’s gone?
When the priestess is done with the last rites, my blood burns as Adam makes his way close to Daphne, leaning down to say something to her, but she stares past him to her father’s closed coffin. After a few minutes, Adam gives up and stalks away, and my tense muscles relax.