A scene burst into existence, unfurling in the air like a hologram.
There, lying in bed, was Roman.
My beloved husband.
Bandaged. Alive. Safe.
Frowning as he fiddled with my dad’s television remote.
A sobbing laugh tore from my throat. “My husband’s learning how to use a television!”
But then?—
The sweetest, most gut-wrenching vision of all met my eyes.
Papa.
My father—the man I had watched Tristan kill—stepped into Roman’s room.
The air rushed from my lungs. My body gave out. I slumped beside Malik on the bed, my limbs weak, my mind scrambling to understand what I saw.
My father, whom I had grieved. Who I had buried in my heart.
Alive.
A freight train of truth slammed into me, its force gasping me. The world tilted, warped.
A brick wall of grief and finality—the one I had built to survive—crumbled before my eyes, revealing a reality I had never once considered.
My breath came in short, uneven gasps. My hands trembled. My thoughts spiraled.
How?
How was he alive?
How many other lies had I accepted as truth?
The weight of it all pressed against my chest, suffocating, screaming through my mind with unanswered questions and raging emotions.
Then, in a whisper, fragile, broken, I forced the words out:
“My father… all this time… he’s been alive?”
The room closed in. The vision shimmered before me, so real yet impossibly wrong.
And suddenly, I didn’t know what to believe anymore.
Chapter 7
Olivia
The shock of seeing my father alive jolted me to my feet. My legs wobbled beneath me, but I barely noticed.
I was so focused on the vision in the dagger that everything around me—Malik’s bedroom, where I had been sleeping moments ago—seemed to dissolve.
The four-poster bed, draped in luxurious fabric, faded. The sturdy, polished wood of the armoire and dresser ceased to exist. The thick, elaborately woven rugs vanished beneath my feet. Even the gilded wallpaper, opulent and rich, slipped away.
The only thing left was Papa.
