“You’ll think about it, won’t you?” she asks, hope shimmering in her voice.
“I’m always thinking, Mom,” I reply subdued. “But I also think you should know everything that happened in the past. I can help you with that, if you’d like, but I won’t push you.”
She purses her lips. “There’s nothing in the past for me to find out.”
“Maybe not. But you’ll never know for sure if you keep hiding from the truth.”
What I don’t say is that I won’t try to change her mind. That I respect her choice. I just wish she’d respect mine.
That it was easier for her to forgive my father because she never had all the facts. Because she never saw the evidence lined up—timestamped and damning—the way I did.
So, I say nothing else.
Because if there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s that everyone wants to believe the lies they tell themselves, and you can’t force anyone to choose truth over comfort.
Chapter 19
Best friend
Maya
The moment I step into the lobby, one of the receptionists looks up, and her expression shifts.
Her smile falters. Then she straightens in her chair, her professional mask snapping into place like armor.
“Maya,” she says carefully.
Not Ms. Fisher. Just Maya.
“I need to see Colin,” I say flatly, not wasting any breath on niceties.
Her fingers hover above the keyboard. Not typing—not even pretending to. She just stares at me with that tight, uneasy expression.
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you up,” she says finally.
Her voice is almost apologetic, but it’s nowhere near enough.
I blink. I’m stunned for a second, and then the humiliation just washes over me. I’m actually standing here, doing this, after everything that happened
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I’m sorry, Maya. I was told—”
“Oh, I bet you were.” A short laugh escapes me. “Let me guess—orders from Mr. Montgomery?”
She doesn’t answer. The discomfort in her eyes says everything.
And then I catch it. That subtle glance toward the corner, a silent cue for the guard by the elevators.
“What?” I snap. “You don’t want me to make a scene? Then call Colin and tell him to let me up.”
My voice trembles. Not from weakness, but from sheer, exhausted fury.
“I worked here. For over six months. And now I can’t even take the elevator up?”
Her face softens, but she still doesn’t speak.
She can’t. She’s following orders. And somehow, that makes me hate her more.
