I shifted my attention to him without breaking posture.
“Patrón Silver. Neat. Double. No lime. No salt. I like it clean.”
He nodded. “Got it, ma’am.”
He turned to prepare the drink.
My father remained frozen beside me.
His silence was heavier now. Thicker.
Then his voice broke — not dramatically — but in a strained whisper that revealed cracks in his control.
“Elena... I... I can’t believe—”
“What?” I interrupted smoothly.
“You want to pretend you didn’t know I was alive?”
My gaze locked onto his.
“Or are you surprised the daughter you abandoned actually survived?”
The words weren’t emotional. They were factual.
Presented like evidence.
His throat tightened visibly. “It’s complicated, Elena.”
He chose the most predictable defense.
The most convenient one.
“You know I would never willingly abandon you.”
The lie floated between us.
Complicated.
As if staging your own death and disappearing from your child’s life was a bureaucratic misunderstanding.
As if leaving me to navigate legal threats, financial manipulation, and manipulation from people connected to his network was collateral damage.
He had vanished.
Rebranded.
Rebuilt power under new identities.
While I believed he was buried.
While I struggled to survive without protection.
While I had almost married Harris — believing it was the only way to claim my inheritance.
Complicated.
The word tasted like rust.
