When Barret pulls up to my father’s house—the same cold, architectural vanity project he once called “clean lines and creative flow”—my stomach knots so tight it might crush my ribs.The place is still all brutal concrete and showy angles, but now there’s something wild creeping in.The landscaping’s overgrown, the grass longer than he ever allowed, hedges curling out in strange directions like the house itself is in mourning.Or maybe it’s rotting.Failing from the inside out, just like the man still living in it.
“I don’t get it,” Barret mutters, eyes scanning the lawn.“He spent more on those hedges than I did on my car.Now it looks like a haunted Martha Stewart fever dream.”
I give a short, humorless laugh.“Thanks for the ride.”
He nods, doesn’t push for more.That’s what I like about Barret.He knows when not to ask.
I get out and storm inside before I can change my mind.
The nurse gives me a quizzical look, brows raised like she might say something, but she doesn’t.Just disappears down the hall as I head toward his room like I’ve done this a hundred times before.But I haven’t.Not like this.
Dad’s in the recliner by the window, a blanket slung across his lap.His face is slack.He looks smaller.Older.Deflated.Like someone let the air out of the legend he tried so hard to sculpt.
But it doesn’t soften me.
Not even a little.
I stand there, arms folded across my chest, rage swelling in my throat, tight and blistering.My heart races like it’s trying to claw its way through my ribs.I don’t say hello.Don’t offer polite nothings or pretend this is anything but what it is.I stare at him—at Connor Dempsey—and let every buried feeling rise like steam from a volcano seconds before eruption.
“You ruined him,” I whisper.
His eyes twitch toward mine.A slow blink.Blank.Maybe confused.Maybe pretending.He’s always been good at pretending.
“You ruined Roderick, Dad.”
His mouth opens a little, slack-jawed, like maybe there’s something he wants to say.But nothing comes out.
“I know what you did,” I say, louder now, each word vibrating through me.“I know, Dad.”
I step closer.My breath is jagged, chest rising and falling like I just ran a marathon in a hurricane.
“You orchestrated the moment that broke us.You hired someone to violate him in front of a fucking camera, and then you sent me there to watch it happen like it was some performance piece.Another twisted PR stunt.You fed him pills and promises and called it protection.You told him to kiss strangers for exposure, like that’s what love looked like.You made him believe you were the only person who believed in him.”
My voice cracks.My fists clench.But I keep going because I’ll drown in it if I stop.
“And I—fuck—I believed it too.”
There’s a trembling in my hands now, like the truth is trying to shake its way out of me.
“You sold people,” I spit, pacing now, each step echoing against the cold, sterile tile.“You sold their images.Their pain.Their goddamn bodies.And you did it all with a smile.Like it was nothing.Like it was just business.”
I stop, eyes burning.My mouth dry and full of dust.
“You broke him and made it look like he broke himself.And I hated him for it.I hated myself for it.I walked away from the person I loved more than anything because?—”
I choke on the words.My hands fly to my face, then drop just as fast.I won’t hide.Not now.
“How dare you play with people’s lives like a puppeteer?”
Tears blur my vision.They fall, hot and soundless.
“He didn’t deserve it.I didn’t deserve it.”
I turn to face him fully, heart hammering in my chest like it’s trying to beat out all the lies.My whole body vibrates with something I’ve kept locked away for too long.
“You raised me like a fucking weapon, Dad.You told me loyalty meant silence.That emotion was weakness.That if something hurt, it was probably good for my career.You told me to grow up fast, to toughen up, to never let them see me cry.”
My voice is hoarse now, rubbed raw from the inside.
