“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Actually, yeah,” I say with a laugh, almost shocked.
This wasn’t what I’d expected.
I take off my high heels and lean against the wall beside Davis, letting my head fall back against the cool stone. My feet are screaming, and my eyes are heavy. I think I could fall asleep standing up.
“Life is so weird.” I smile so wide that my face hurts.
“Yes, it fucking is,” he says with a chuckle.
39
LOUIS
The door clicks shut behind Addison, and the room feels larger without her in it. My father motions to the chair across from him, and I lower myself into it.
“Before we discuss anything else,” I say, “I have a request.”
“Go on.”
“I’d like to make Davis my personal guard permanently. I’d like that to come with a significant raise.”
My father’s mouth curves into a small smile. “I was going to suggest it.”
“Thank you. He risked everything for me. I won’t forget that.”
“Nor should you.” He leans back in his chair. “I’ll have the paperwork drawn up today. He’ll report directly to you from now on.”
“I appreciate that so much,” I say.
My father nods, and then his face shifts into something more personal. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
He studies me with those eyes that miss nothing.
“I’m not sure I’ve told you that enough over the years. I let your mother take the lead on many things. I told myself it was because she was better at day-to-day management. But the truth is, I was tired. I retreated into my illness before I even had one.”
“Father—”
“Let me finish.” He holds up a hand. “I watchedyou struggle this summer. I watched your mother put you through hell. And while I wanted to see what you were made of, it did go too far.”
“It worked though.” I manage a small smile. “I fought and found my limit.”
“You did. I’m sorry you went through this and that we put so much pressure on you.” He reaches across the space between us and grips my shoulder. “I’m sorry for all of it.”
I nod because words feel inadequate.
We sit in silence, and then I remember what Addison whispered before she left.
“The painting above the fireplace.”
My gaze moves to the landscape hanging there, and I study the garden scene that has a pregnant woman on a stone bench.
“That painting,” I say. “How long has it been there?”
My father looks over his shoulder at it. “Your grandmother had it moved to this room forty years ago. I remember asking why, and she mentioned it was one of her personal favorites. Never had the heart to move it.”
