My father’s hand fell heavily on my shoulder. “The moment you decided to use her for revenge, you compromised everything that followed. Even if your feelings changed, the deception remained. That’s what she can’t forgive.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” I demanded, frustration boiling over. “Just let her go? Pretend the best thing that ever happened to me didn’t exist?”
“For now? Yes.” My father’s voice was firm. “You give her the space she asked for. You respect her enough to honor that request.”
“And then what?”
Dimitrios exchanged a glance with my father. “Then you prove you’ve changed through actions, not just words. If you ever get another chance—if she ever allows it—you show her who you are.”
“How?” The question emerged more desperately than I intended. “How do I fix this?”
My father sighed, the sound weary and weighted with experience. “Some things can’t be fixed, Chrysanthos. Some broken trust never mends. You need to accept that possibility.”
The truth of his words dimmed my hopes. For the first time since Tia walked away, I confronted the reality that she might never come back. The thought made it difficult to breathe.
The New York penthouse became both sanctuary and prison. Days stretched into humiliating routines—showering, eating, sleeping—all requiring coordination with my father, who kept the handcuffs firmly in place.
“This can’t continue indefinitely,” I argued on our fifth morning.
“It will continue until I’m convinced you’ve learned something,” he replied, brushing his teeth with his free hand.
Our family’s arrival in New York had stirred media attention even before the police interviews began. Detective Malone seemed amused by our handcuffed state during questioning.
“Interesting parenting technique,” he remarked.
My father merely nodded. “My son makes poor choices. Having him cuffed to me has afforded me the best sleep since he began walking.”
The detective’s questions about Stavros’ death were pointed, reopening the homicide case with new forensic evidence. The poison had been administered over time, making the murder both calculated and intimate.
Later, Dimitrios brought news that made the situation grimmer.
“Angela’s driver gave an interview,” he said. “Claims she hired him to kill her daughter-in-law because she opposed Nolan’s marriage.”
My father’s jaw tightened, the only visible sign of his anger. “Not just a murderer, but a repeat offender. First Stavros, now this.” He shifted, causing our handcuffs to clink. “I want everything we have on Angela’s finances for the last thirty years—every transaction, every account, every shell company. If she hired someone once, there’ll be something.”
Dimitrios nodded, already reaching for his phone. “What about Leon and Nolan? They’re refusing all contact.”
“They’ll have to face facts eventually,” my father replied. “Their mother killed their father. No amount of family loyalty changes that truth.”
I watched this exchange silently, struck by how quickly my father had pivoted from managing my personal crisis to addressing a devastating family scandal. The ease with which he moved between disciplining his wayward son and protecting the Christakis legacy spoke to decades of shouldering responsibilities.
That night, laying in bed next to my father, I stared at the ceiling thinking of Tia. I’d called her obsessively. She hadn’t read my texts or responded to my messages.
By the second week, the handcuffs had left permanent marks on my wrist. Physical discomfort was nothing compared to the emotional toll of constant scrutiny and Tia’s absence.
Angela’s arrest dominated the news cycle. We spotted Leon at the courthouse during her bail hearing, standing on the defense side. He didn’t acknowledge us, even when Irida attempted to approach him.
“He needs time,” my father said. “This isn’t easy for them.”
Domna’s testimony proved valuable to the investigation. Her clear recollections of Stavros’ final months provided the context the investigators had lacked.
“He suspected she was unfaithful,” she explained to Malone. “Angela would have lost financially if she divorced. Three weeks later, he was dead.”
I found myself drawn into family concerns despite my preoccupation with Tia. Every day, I’d stare at my phone, willing it to ring. Each night, the disappointment was fresh again.
“I’m removing these,” my father announced on the morning of the twenty-first day, producing a key. “You’ve earned that much.”
The absence of metal against my skin felt strange. I rubbed my wrist, the indentations deep and red.
