I pressed my free hand over my mouth to keep the sob in. “Just take care of them, okay? Both of them. Make sure Lily keeps dancing and Hector keeps cooking and they’re—” My voice broke. “Make sure they’re happy.”
“Sarah—”
“I have to go.”
“Wait—”
I hung up before she could say anything else, before I could hear about how much Lily missed me or how Hector was doing or any of the thousand details that would make this hurt worse.
Then I sat on my bathroom floor and cried until my throat was raw.
Weeks passed, and London settled into a routine I didn’t quite feel part of.
I learned which tube lines ran late, which coffee shops had the best pastries, which streets to avoid during tourist season. I made friends at the clinic—other therapists who invited me to pub quizzes and weekend markets. Colin dragged me to his university events and introduced me to his friends who were all brilliant and intimidating.
I built a life—or something that looked like one from the outside. Went to work, came home, read books, explored the city. Did all the things I’d dreamed about when I was in New York working three jobs and drowning in my father’s debt.
But it felt hollow. Like I was playing the part of someone who’d gotten what they wanted and forgot to feel grateful for it.
I thought about Hector every single day—the way he’d looked at me, the way he’d stopped looking at me.
Wondered if he still hated me or if time had softened his anger into something more manageable. Wondered if he’d found a new therapist for Lily or if he was managing on his own. If he ever thought about me at all or if I’d become just another person who’d disappointed him.
I told myself it was better this way. That they were healing without me dragging them back into grief. That Lily needed stability, not the daughter of the man who’d killed her mother showing up to therapy sessions. That Hector deserved to move forward without me as a constant reminder of everything he’d lost.
I told myself these things every night before bed, trying to make them feel true.
But the truth was simpler and more painful: I missed them so desperately it felt like dying, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
Because I’d made my choice when I’d kept that secret.
And now I had to live with it—alone, and far too aware of what I’d lost.
CHAPTER 20
Hector
The penthouse was tooquiet without Sarah.
I noticed it the first morning after she left—walking into the kitchen and finding no one humming while making coffee, no bag left on the counter with therapy materials spilling out, no cheerful greeting that was too loud for seven in the morning.
Just silence—and Mrs. Pearson’s careful politeness, like she was afraid any sudden movement might break something in me.
Lily noticed too.
She came to breakfast that first day and looked around like she was searching for something. She climbed into her chair and ate her cereal without speaking, her small shoulders drawn tight, like she was bracing for something, her eyes drifting to the empty seat where Sarah used to sit.
“Where’s Ms. Sarah?” she asked eventually.
“She had to leave.”
“When is she coming back?”
“She’s not coming back.” The words tasted like something I shouldn’t be saying aloud.
Lily set down her spoon. “Why not?”
I didn’t have an answer she could understand. Couldn’t tell my eight-year-old daughter that Sarah’s father had killed her mother, that I’d discovered this terrible truth and exploded with anger so vicious I could still taste it.
