Let it burn.
I looked away before he could answer. The photographers called my name, shouting questions, lights flashing—
“Joshua! Are you saying you’ll take legal action?”
“Are you rejecting your father’s donation?”
“Will you reopen it yourself?”
I didn’t look back.
The only sound left behind was the echo of my footsteps and the sharp click of cameras trying to capture a story that they’d never understand.
Because the real story wasn’t about a donation.
It was about a boy who lost his mother and the man who dared to use her name to cleanse his sins. And I swore, as I shoved open my car door and slammed it shut again, that I’d rather watch the whole building crumble to dust than let John Lockhart be the reason it stood.
—
The doors swung open to the quiet hum of my penthouse.
The warmth hit first: the smell of food, faint traces of her perfume, and the soft sound of the TV playing something light in the background.
And then I spotted her curled up on the couch, Honey sprawled across her lap like always. Her fingers moved gently through the kitten’s fur, slow and careful, as if she were afraid she’d break something so small.
Then she looked up.
Her eyes met mine, wide and searching, and before I could say a word, she stood. Still holding the kitten to her chest, still careful.
For a second, I forgot to breathe.
Her hair was slightly messy from sitting too long, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, and the bracelet I’d given her glinted under the light when she moved.
Honey meowed softly, a sound that filled the silence between us.
“You’re back,” she said in that soft tone, as if she’d been waiting for me and, maybe I’m delusional… a bit worried.
I nodded, running a hand down my face. My suit jacket felt too tight, as if it were choking me, as if the entire day were still clinging to my skin.
And she noticed, of course she noticed.
Without asking, she placed Honey on the couch, walked up to me, and—God—she brushed the lapel of my suit. Just lightly. Dusting off invisible dirt, eyes flicking to mine for a brief second before dropping again.
Her fingers grazed the edge of my tie, and I realised my hands were still shaking.
“Y-you look—” she started, tilting her head a bit while analysing my face, my expression, “—mad. But also sad.”
I almost laughed.
Trust her to sum me up in six words.
“Both,” I muttered, voice rough. “It’s complicated.”
She hesitated before speaking again.
“Your dad?”
I blinked. “How—”
