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I know a lot more than she can imagine because for some time I was part of that world. I even . . . I stop and stare down at my hands, flexing my fingers as I suddenly wonder if I still remember how to play piano. Not that it matters, I gave up creating music to use my hands for healing instead. And this is perfectly fine. I’ve changed so many lives since I graduated, and I will continue doing it for as long as I can.
“You went silent again,” Blythe points out, finally glancing up to meet my gaze, her eyes filled with concern. “Have you thought more about seeing a grief counselor?”
I force a smile and shake my head. “I’m fine, really.”
“I want to believe you, but ever since your dad died, you’ve been . . . absent. It’s understandable to mourn. You don’t have any family left, but I’m here for you, okay?”
Am I really mourning my father? His death unearthed so many buried memories and regrets. I can’t help but wonder how life would’ve turned out if tragedy hadn’t marked our family the way it did. Do I want to speak to someone about it?
Not really, I just want to forget, and let it go.
Blythe means well, but there are some wounds that run too deep to easily voice. For now, it’s easier to pretend I’m fine rather than try to put this profound sense of emptiness into words. Maybe once the center is secure again, I’ll try to assess the internal damage to my mind and soul.
My phone chimes with an incoming text. It’s from Talon, the stoic bodyguard who’s also going to live in the house. He’ll be here overseeing the security of our celebrity guest.
“They’ll be at your house in five minutes,” I read aloud with a sigh. “I’m already here.”
I feel a swell of anxiety, uncertainty, and resentment. But I force all of it down, reminding myself to show professionalism. Taking a deep breath and gathering the little patience I have left within, I say, “I suppose I should get ready to greet them then.”
“You’re making it sound as if you’re going to meet your doom,” Blythe says, almost laughing.
I might as well be. Something’s nagging at me, but I just can’t explain it.
This feels like a final surrender—handing over the last untouched parts of my world to serve someone else’s needs. But if enduring this keeps our dream alive, so be it. I’ll just work extra hard to ensure this man is out the door in a week.
Chapter Four
Seraphina
When we arrive at what used to be my childhood home, my stomach drops, and my heart clenches. Every time I’m back here I’m flooded with memories of the family that no longer exists—the people who filled these walls with laughter and love.
I picture Iris’s radiant smile as we played make-believe, her melodic laugh at our brother’s silly jokes. Though he’d complain about having only sisters, he adored us both. As the youngest of the three, he protected me.
Mom always tended to the entire estate. Her gardens were green and beautifully colored by flowers, bushes, and benches throughout the area. It’s barren now except for the neat, trimmed grass. I still maintain one small part. The area with her artificial pond. That little oasis was her pride and joy, and my favorite hiding place. I could spend hours there reading or listening to music. Though I should avoid it, most times that’s where I still go to find some peace.
My favorite days while growing up were when Father came home from a business trip. His arms filled with gifts—a new book for me, some unique trinkets from his travels for Iris, and Zane would get candy. He always had a sweet tooth.
Once upon a time, we were a happy family and Dad was the best father anyone could’ve asked for. But that was before . . . I swallow hard as we approach the front steps, burying the sting of loss and resentment. Aside from the few people who used to support and care about him, no one really knew the man my father became at the end—angry and callous.
I keep that final chapter locked away, trying hard to just preserve the happier memories of the man everyone loved.
Being back here stirs up ghosts. But I paste on a smile, determined not to let old wounds show. This house may hold pain, but what if it also becomes hope? A chance to rebuild. I cling to that possibility as we go inside to prepare for the arrival of our so-called “miracle.”
We halt as a big black SUV comes down the gravel driveway. My heart pounds and my palms grow slick with sweat.
“They’re here,” Blythe says, all giddy.
I can’t share the sentiment. Instead, I discreetly wipe my hands on my pants, trying to get a grip on the anxiety rising up to squeeze my chest tight. What if I just send them back?
Don’t screw this up, I tell myself. Too much is riding on letting them stay and making a good impression. But the voice in my head pipes up with a hundred worries and insecurities. What if he’s impossible to please? What if this just makes everything worse in the end? What if . . . So many things can go wrong.
I paste my professional smile back on as the SUV pulls to a stop in a cloud of dust.
You can do this, I lie to myself. Just get through the next few weeks and you’ll be free. The doors open, and I steel myself to finally meet the man who holds my business, my home, and probably my entire future in his hands.
The first thing I notice isn’t the wheelchair being unfolded from the trunk, but the captivating aura of the man still seated inside the vehicle. Even from a distance, his presence is undeniably magnetic.
“Dibs on him,” Blythe leans in to whisper playfully. “Too bad he’s your client . . . you can’t cross that line.”
