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“Everything I could ever want?” I snort. “I have only ever wanted my family, and you took that from me. You sent me away when I was a child. And for what? Because I looked too much like Mom?”
“I sent you away for your education. You were suffering in Miami—”
“I wasn’t suffering. I was depressed. I was grieving. My mom and brother were dead, and you did nothing but turn your back on me. Just admit it! Admit you sent me away because I look like Mom, and you hate it.”
“Like I said—”
“Admit it!”
“You will shut your mouth and listen, you—”
“Damn you! Just admit the fucking truth!”
“It’s because you lived!” Dad roars.
And there it is. The truth. Out loud. Finally.
“Because I lived?” I repeat.
Dad levels me with a sinister look. “Yes. Is that what you want to hear? That I wish it had been you and not them? Fine. I do. My wife and my son were gone. And my youngest daughter is the only one who lives? I already had a daughter, but I only had one heir and one wife. And no, it’s not because you look like her. That’s just a frustrating inconvenience reminding me that you lived and your mother did not.”
I always imagined I would feel some sort of grief when I finally heard the poisonous truth, but strangely, I only feel relief. His words cement my suspicions and bring closure to ten years of suffering and despair.
This man is not my father. A father loves their children unconditionally. A father doesn’t blame his child for an accident that claimed two lives and destroyed a third. A father would comfort his surviving child. A father wouldn’t be this cruel. It’s more clear now than everthat my father died the same day my mother did.
“You know she was my mom, and he was my brother just as much as they were your wife and son, right? Don’t you think I wish it had been me instead of them? I wished for that for so long, but I don’t anymore. I want to do something with my life that would make Mom proud. And she would be so ashamed of you right now. Ashamed of how you turned your back on your youngest daughter when I needed you the most.” I inhale deeply, refusing to look away from my dad’s cold, dark eyes that grow angrier by the second. “I was twelve years old. We were on our way back from picking out a Christmas tree. It wasn’t my fault, yet you sit there and blame me for living. But you don’t get to be angry with me. I’m sorry you wish it had been me and not them. I really am. But I’m not sorry for living. I refuse to be.”
Silence falls over the living room like a heavy weight. In my peripheral vision, I note my father’s men grow anxious over the rising tension in the room. One strike and the whole place is likely to blow.
“You will return to Miami to fulfill your obligation to marry Igor Mikhailov.” Dad’s tone is sharp like a blade and just as deadly across my throat.
“I will not.”
“This is not up for discussion.”
“The hell it isn’t. It’s not my obligation to fulfill a promise you made for me without my consent. I won’t marry that perverted old man. You don’t have control over who I marry. I’m an adult.”
“You are my daughter and—”
“Really? Your daughter? You wish I died. What kind of father wants that?”
“You will marry Igor. You have no choice in the matter.”
It’s like arguing with a brick wall. My words are going in one ear and out the other. “You can just let me be. No one needs to know I’m here. Leave Italy and return to Miami. Tell everyone I’m dead for all I care. Forget I exist. You want that so desperately, anyway.”
“And what about Grace? You left her devastated on her wedding day.”
The bastard knows just where to hit me. The depth of pain she must have felt that day haunts my dreams more often than his face does. “She’ll understand.” In time. The baby waiting for me back in town is reason enough.
“Unfortunately, I can’t just let you be. There is a marriage contract between you and Igor.”
“You bastard,” I hiss. I know well enough what a marriage contract means. It’s binding in our world, and as good as actually being married. “I won’t—”
“Sir.”
One of his men interrupts me, and all the blood rushes from my face when I see what he holds in his hands—a baby onesie from the laundry I hadn’t put away just yet.
Dad waves the soldier over and takes the outfit from his outstretched hand. “Whose kid?”
