Page 161 of Vow to Claim You

“Leandro.” My mother’s voice carries a warning, but he ignores her.

“I would’ve thought, given the circumstances, he might prioritize⁠—”

“He’s giving us space.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “That’s consideration, Father, not an insult.”

He looks at me for a moment, something like surprise in his eyes. “Of course,” he says quietly. “Forgive me. I’m merely concerned for you, habibti.”

Habibti. The endearment he hasn’t used since I was a child.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” Father runs his hand through his face. “Losing a child… there’s no pain like it. Nothing that prepares you for it.” His voice cracks, and he takes a deep breath. “And to not even know you were pregnant until after…” He shakes his head slowly. “The cruelty of it. The unfairness. It makes me want to⁠—”

He takes a breath again as though it takes all effort in him to say those words. As though they’re stuck in his throat. And when he looks at me again, there’s something in his eyes that looks almost like… guilt?

“I blame myself, Ayanna.”

My brows twitch. “What?”

“This marriage. I arranged it. I put you in this position. I thought I was securing your future, protecting you, giving you a life of power and privilege. Instead, I put you in the crosshairs of a war you never asked to fight.”

“Father—”

“No, let me finish.” His forehead creases. “You were at that gala because of me. You were standing beside Vold when those men came for him because of the marriage I forced you into. Your daughter—” His voice breaks. Actually breaks. As if the word itself is difficult to speak. “Your daughter died because I put you in this world. That’s on me, habibti. That will be on me for the rest of my life.”

I don’t know what to say. In all my years of knowing my father, I have never seen him like this. Never heard him take responsibility for anything. Never watched him bend beneath the weight of his own choices.

My father doesn’t apologize or admit fault. He moves on, leaving the wreckage of his decisions behind him without a backward glance.

Yet here he is. Looking at me with eyes that seem almost… wet.

“You don’t have to stay,” he whispers.

“What?”

“In this marriage. In this life. With him.” He stresses the last. “You don’t have to stay, Ayanna. I put you here, and I can get you out.”

The words don’t make sense. “The contract⁠—”

“I don’t care about the contract anymore.” His voice is firm now. “I don’t care about the alliance, or the business arrangements, or any of the things I thought mattered when I signed your future away. I’ll find a way to break it. I’ll find a way to free you. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, I’ll⁠—”

“Father, stop.” My head is spinning. This is too much, too fast. “I don’t… I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m saying you can come home.” He walks toward me and stops right beside the edge of the bed. “Back to Monsera. Back to your family. Back to a life where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder, wondering who wants your husband dead badly enough to kill you too.”

My gaze drops for a fraction, and my father’s words keep echoing in my ears. Because, as much as I hate to admit that, he might be right. If I stay… can I ever feel safe again? If I ever get pregnant again, how will I endure the constant fear that someone might want Aric dead, me dead, or… our baby gone?

“I made a mistake, Ayanna.” Father snaps me out of my reverie. “Arranging this marriage. I thought I was doing what was best for our family, for our future. I didn’t realize the price you’d pay.”

I stare at him. This man I’ve known my entire life. This man I’ve feared, respected, resented, and loved in the complicated way daughters love fathers who treat them like assets.

Is he really saying what I think he’s saying?

Is he really offering me a way out?

“Even if I wanted to leave”—I clear my throat—“Aric would never agree to⁠—”

“Aric doesn’t get to decide.” Something hardens in my father’s voice. Something cold and sharp, like a blade being unsheathed. “You are my daughter. My blood. And if you want to come home, I will move heaven and earth to make it happen. Contract be damned.”

I turn away and look to the window. “I don’t know what I want,” I admit quietly. “I don’t know what I feel. Everything is so… muddled. The grief, the fear, the—” I press my other hand to my stomach, a gesture I’ve caught myself making a hundred times since I woke up in that medical bed, reaching for something that’s no longer there. “I can’t think clearly. I can’t see past the next hour, let alone the rest of my life.”