“They told me you had moved on. That you were married. That you were happy.”
Happy.
The word felt hollow.
For illustration purposes
Fragments of the past began to rearrange themselves in my mind—my father watching too closely at the funeral, the closed casket, the unease he never spoke out loud.
My wedding day. Connor’s polite smile. My father whispering, You deserve real love.
Maybe he knew. Maybe he suspected the truth all along.
“Why now?” I asked.
“Because my father’s gone. Because I finally have access to my own records. Because my mother can’t control everything anymore.”
“And what do you want from me?”
He looked straight at me, no hesitation this time.
“Help.”
Camille arrived two days later in a sleek black sedan that looked out of place on our quiet street.
She stepped out composed, elegant, and entirely in control.
