I wanted to be better.
Not redeemed. Not forgiven.
Just… better than the man my father shaped.
When we reach the house, I know immediately I won’t be able to do it.
The lights are on. Laughter spills faintly through a window. A life unfolding, unaware. A woman. Two children, twins, boys, chasing each other across the yard while their father watches from the porch, smiling like this world has never demanded blood from him.
Something breaks in me.
I send Jaxon away without argument. He doesn’t fight me on it. He knows that look. The one that means I’ve already crossed a line I can’t step back over.
I wait.
Hours pass. Eventually the house empties. The laughter leaves with the woman and the children, taillights disappearing into the dark. When I’m certain they won’t return, I approach the door.
The knock is calm. Measured.
He opens the door.
What happens next isn’t clean. It isn’t gentle. I don’t kill him, but I make sure he understands how close he came. I leave him shaken, bruised, very aware that staying here will end badly for everyone he loves.
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t threaten.
I don’t need to.
Fear does the work for me.
I give him the means to do it. Money transferred from an account that doesn’t exist on paper. Enough to vanish without questions. Enough to start over somewhere my father will never think to look.
No goodbyes. No explanations. Just gone.
My father doesn’t know his name. Didn’t care to learn it. In his rage, he didn’t look past the position, only the punishment. I take some comfort in that as I leave, though it doesn’t settle the knot in my chest.
I hope it’s enough.
By the time I get home, it’s just after two.
The lift crawls upward, and I lean back against the wall, exhaustion dragging at my bones. I count the floors as they pass, my thoughts locked on one thing,her. The need to see her coils tight in my chest, sharp and restless.
I don’t want quiet. I want confirmation. I need to know she’s where I left her.
The doors slide open.
Silence.
Too much of it.
I step into the penthouse and my pulse spikes. No movement. No sound. I move faster, checking the living space, the bedroom, the bathroom, every second stretching thinner than the last.
She’s not here.
“Fuck,” I mutter, the word ripping out of me.
A discarded coffee mug sits by the sink, still warm. Evidence of life. Of choice.
My phone is already in my hand when I see it, a message I missed.
