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But things aren’t as easy. They never are for me. Though, there’s the silver lining, Seraphina St. Clairmont will be here—even if she doesn’t like it. And as I think of her, a new text pops up.
Seraphina: If you think I’ll back down, you’re wrong.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ellington asks sharply, eyeing my phone.
I shrug. “Just texting my terms to Seraphina.”
“No, you’re poking a sleeping bear,” he warns.
I grin, undeterred. “Well, this cute little bear could use some poking.”
Ellington shakes his head. “When she drops you off the balcony, don’t cry to me.”
“Can your ghost boyfriend stick around to protect me from his little sister?” I joke.
Ellington shoots me an irritated glare. Riling him up is too enjoyable.
Sobering slightly, I ask, “You haven’t told me why her clinic is struggling . . .”
“Does it matter?” he counters evasively.
My eyes narrow. He’s definitely hiding something. But some mysteries are better left buried.
“You know it does,” I press him, wanting the full story.
With a sigh, Ellington fills me in on the center’s dire financial situation—excessive spending, double mortgages, threats of foreclosure.
“I’ll pay it off,” I declare without hesitation.
“We’ve sorta taken care of it,” he confirms.
I arch an eyebrow. “Sorta?”
“To ensure that she’ll treat you, I paid enough so she’ll have some breathing room, but still needs you here because she’s not out of the hole just yet,” he says.
I glare at him. “Don’t be an asshole.”
“You need this.”
And I wish I could tell him that he’s wrong. I could be anywhere else, but in truth all I need to find my will to live is Seraphina St. Clairmont.
“Thatcher should be helping her,” I state, though I don’t know their current situation. Maybe he never stopped being . . . well, Thatcher. A selfish bastard who used everyone around him to his advantage, even his own children. “You should coerce him.”
“He died,” Ellington responds. “My theory is that he has something to do with the financial ruin of the center.”
I’m not sure how to feel about Thatcher’s death. We had a rocky history. But knowing Seraphina is alone and struggling stirs up concern and sadness within me. If only I had been there for her, instead of being trapped in my own downward spiral.
My hands clench into fists, anger welling up at myself, her father, the unfairness of it all. She’s been forced to handle the full weight of this burden alone. It cuts me deeply, imagining her struggling while I languished in useless guilt.
No more. I’ll find a way to make this right. To take care of her like I couldn’t back then. This time, I’ll help shoulder the load instead of being another source of pain. I have to try, even if she hates me. It’s all I can offer her now.
“Let me take you to your room,” Ellington says.
I’m unsure where he’s taking me as he wheels me through the house. Though, as we step into the elevator heading up to the third floor, I have the feeling I’m not going to like my new digs. When we enter what used to be the den that Gwendolyn St. Clairmont converted into a studio for my rehabilitation all those years ago, I know that if the physical pain doesn’t kill me, the past will.
“She didn’t change anything,” Ellington states.
But he’s wrong. The room looks sterile now, stripped of all the personal touches Seraphina brought in to make it feel like home during my recovery.
