The cameras had backed off; the PR smiles fading into silence. Someone must’ve waved them away, because it was just us now, me and him, the man who can wear a black tie to perform but not to my mother’s funeral.
He looked older than I remembered. Not weaker, just… worn. Like guilt had been eating him alive.
Good.
John adjusted his cufflinks and sighed, the sound scraping like gravel. “I didn’t come here to fight, Joshua. I came to make things right.”
I let out a sharp laugh that wasn’t even close to humour. “Right. Fifteen years too late.”
He winced. For a second, I saw something flicker in his eyes, grief, maybe, or something he wanted me to see as grief, but I didn’t buy it.
Couldn’t.
“She loved this place,” he said quietly, looking up at the building. “Your mother. She’d come here every weekend, even after long days. Said it reminded her of what love was supposed to look like.” His voice cracked, barely, before he steadied it. “When I saw it shut down, it felt like losing her all over again. So I donated. I wanted it open again. I wanted…”
He trailed off.
I folded my arms. “You wanted to look good in front of the press. Don’t make it sound noble.”
“That’s not fair, Joshua.”
“Fair?” My eyes narrowed. “You think fair is watching her body being taken away while you’re too busy signing contracts? Fair is you pretending to be a father when you couldn’t even look at her in a coffin?”
His face fell. The mask cracked.
He swallowed hard. “I made mistakes. I won’t deny that. But you don’t understand. I built the company for you. Everything I have, everything I’ve built, it was so you could have a future. A wife, children, something to pass on.”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “A future built on what? Lies? Money? You think I care about your empire?”
“I wanted you to focus, Joshua!” he said suddenly, frustration cutting through the calm. “Not waste time chasing ghosts in an orphanage. I wanted you to build something that lasts, something she would’ve been proud of!”
“Don’t you dare use her pride as your excuse,” I hissed.
We stood there, the air thick enough to choke on. The orphanage’s front doors creaked as Aunt Claire peeked out, worried. He looked at me again, truly looked, and for a brief, unwanted moment, I saw the father I’d once wanted. The one who should’ve been there.
But no.
That man died the same day she did.
I stepped back, voice low. “You want to make it right? You can’t. You had your chance.”
And before he could speak again, I turned and walked away.
He could donate a million times, plaster her name on every wall in this city; it wouldn’t matter. He killed the only home I ever had.
The words between us hung in the air, heavy, sharp, unfinished. Every nerve in my body buzzed with rage. I couldfeel reporters gathering again, sensing the tension like blood in the water.
I looked at him one last time, over my shoulder.
“I don’t care how much money you pour into this place,” I said, letting every syllable land like a hit. “I don’t care what story the media prints tomorrow. Joshua Lockhart will never allow John Lockhart to be the reason this orphanage opens its doors again.”
Gasps. Murmurs. The PR team froze mid-step.
I kept going, voice shaking but firm. “This place was hers. Sofia Lockhart built it with her hands, her heart, and her time, not with his damn money. So if this place ever breathes again, it’ll be because of her. Because of me. But not him. Never him.”
For a split second, I saw it… his face fell, that flash of genuine regret breaking through his polished facade.
Good.
