I listened through the door like the coward I am and did nothing.
“Tell her I’m working,” I say.
“She’s been asking for you all day,” Neli continues. “She needs her father.”
“And I need to finish this budget review.”
It’s a lie. The budget is fine. I’ve been staring at the same column of numbers for twenty minutes without actually seeing them.
But admitting that means admitting I can’t face my own daughter.
“Mr. Fiore.” Neli’s voice gets an edgethat says she’s done being polite. “Your daughter needs you. Not Jess. Not me.You.” She pauses, tries: “She alreadyknowswhat you look like.”
“I said I’m fucking working!” The words come out too loud. Too harsh.
Silence.
Then footsteps. Moving away.
I drop my head into my hands.
This is what I’ve become. A man who hides from his five-year-old because facing her means facing what I’ve lost.
I grab my phone. Open Instagram. Type in Jess’s old handle.
Her account is still there. Profile photo unchanged. That warm smile and those curves that used to make me lose my fucking mind.
I scroll through her feed. Old posts from months ago. Make-up tutorials. Product reviews. The glossy influencer shit she used to do before the algorithm turned on her.
Nothing new.
No updates.
No indication of where she is or what she’s doing or if she’s thinking about us at all.
I close the app. Open my messages instead.
The last text from her was five days ago. Before she quit. Before the little fight with Ethan.
I type out a message. Delete it. Type another. Delete that, too.
What the fuck am I supposed to say?
Sorry I hired a private investigator to stalk your life?
Sorry I manipulated your brother into being my friend so I could orbit you like some obsessed creep?
Sorry I dragged you and my daughter into the woods where a bear tore my face off and traumatized everyone?
Sorry I’m too fucked up to even look at you now?
I put the phone down.
The room feels smaller, like the walls are closing in and the air’s running out.
Which it probably is.
This is what I deserve.
