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.
The ceremony continues. Both Adam and the board unerringly find the biggest philanthropists in the city to stand next to, probably so they can schmooze them after the service.
Daphne stays where she is, beside her father’s empty coffin. I know it’s empty, because earlier today he was cremated. His estate lawyer sent me notice, along with a formal request to be interred beside his wife at Thornhill.
A request I denied. Maybe it’s petty of me, but I hated that old bastard and I swore he’d never enter my property dead or alive. He did nothing for his wife or daughter in life.
I feel a few pangs of guilt as Daphne sprinkles rose petals at the base of the statue dedicated to Dr. Laurel. She looks thinner and paler than I last saw her. Reporters dog her steps and I want to growl, scare them all off. Wrap her in my great coat and carry her back to my castle. Make sure she got a good meal in her.
And then what? She chose Adam. I trusted her with my heart and she reduced it to rubble. Why the fuck am I here again?
A funeral goer glances up at me, startled. I’m growling like a feral dog. I glare at him until he flashes the whites of his eyes and scuttles away.
Calm. Control. Daphne’s pale face, red lips moving as she thanks the priestess. Her frozen expression as black-garbed people mill past to pay their respects.
I feel nothing for her. I squeeze my hands into fists and tell myself that over and over again. I can believe anything if I say it enough times. Any emotion I ever had for Daphne Laurel needs to die.
Daphne
Logan leaves. A hulking mountain of a man. I saw him as soon as he showed up. It’s ridiculous that he even tries to hide.
Adam Archer leaves too, after posing with the statue for a few photos. He glances my way, willing me to look at him, but the board gathers around him, ushering him away. Belladonna’s board members won’t even look in my direction.
Not that I want them to. The news came out this morning: Belladonna’s CEO fired. The papers took the opportunity to rerun my half-naked photos on the front page. Next to the news of my dad’s memorial service.
I lost everything in one fell swoop.
Half the people came to pay their respects, the other half to gawk. Or take photos of me, the disgraced daughter. Not that I need more photographic evidence to document my complete and utter failure.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” a well meaning socialite murmurs.
Which one? I want to reply.
“I’d say I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m more worried about you catching cold,” a cultured voice makes my chin jerk up.
Armand. Seeing a friendly face in this tank of sharks is so welcoming, I have to fight back tears as Armand grasps both my hands in his gloved ones.
“Girl, you need more layers.” He starts stripping off his gloves.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but I let him take my hand and tug the glove on.
He doesn’t answer until he’s put both of his gloves on my hands. I haven’t cried since my dad died, but Armand’s kindness makes me want to weep. “I heard about what happened. With Belladonna, with everything. I know it’s trite, but I believe things will turn out all right.” He touches my face and now his hands are cold. “How’re you doing?”