But by the time I stepped out, dried off, and pulled on clean clothes a crewmember had set out for me, the anger had dulled into something heavier. Resignation, maybe. Or exhaustion.
Mostly because of Amelia.
She'd looked at me like I was worth fighting for, even when I wasn't sure I was. And if she could extend that kind of grace, maybe I could, too.
I wasn't the type to hold a grudge. I'd seen what that did to a man's head—turned him bitter, twisted him up inside until there was nothing left but anger and regret.
I didn't want that.
So, I walked back into Dominion Hall, stomach growling, head spinning, and resigned to whatever came next.
My father was waiting in the kitchen.
"Good morning," he said.
I nodded. "Morning."
Delphine, the cook, was at the stove, stirring something that smelled like heaven. She turned when we entered, a warm smile on her face.
"Can I make you anything, Mr. Dane?" she asked.
It took me a second to realize she was talking to me.
"Uh, yeah," I said. "If it's not too much trouble. Six scrambled eggs and a pile of bacon, if you have it."
Her smile widened. "I'll have it out in five minutes. Now shoo, both of you. Out of my kitchen."
Byron chuckled and gestured toward the door. I snagged a mug of coffee on the way out and followed him down the hall.
I waited for him to say something.
My father.
Now what the hell was I supposed to do with that?
We ended up in the sunroom—a massive space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lawn and the harbor beyond. It was bigger than any sunroom I'd ever seen in my life, filled with light and plants and furniture that looked like it had been designed for royalty.
Byron sat in one of the chairs, gesturing for me to take the one across from him.
I sat, cradling the coffee mug like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
"I know you must have questions," he said. "I'll answer anything I can."
I stared at him. "I have questions. I just don't know where to start."
"The beginning," he suggested.
I took a sip of coffee. "Fine. Start there."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "First, I want you to know that I loved your mother very much."
I interrupted before I could stop myself. "You know what a spot she was in, right? What a spotwewere in when you left?"
His jaw tightened. "I know."
"Do you?" I pressed. "Because she raised seven boys on her own. Seven. We fought over everything—food, money, space. She worked herself to the bone while we all pretended we didn't notice. And you were just … gone."
"It couldn't be helped," he said quietly.
