If he won’t listen to us, then we’ll have to up the stakes, turning his rehearsal dinner into our own stage.
We’re walking inside after our late afternoon practice when a text comes through from Cirella to our group chat with Asher and me.
Cirella: They’re back.
Asher: Ugh.
We’re here. Has she bothered you?
My chest tightens at the thought that the first thing Adrianna might’ve done when getting home was go after her. If that’s the case, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold myself back a second time around.
Cirella: She went out shopping, so she’s not even here. I left her gown in her room so I can hopefully avoid talking to her altogether.
Asher: Good. That’s a perfect plan.
With Adrianna gone, now is the time to speak with our father uninterrupted. Which is exactly what we plan to do as we step through the front door.
Myra is in the entryway, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s keeping an eye out for Adrianna’s return. She’s become a mother figure to Cirella, and I’m so fucking grateful that Ciri’s had Myra to look out for her.
“Hi, Myra. Have you seen Everett?” I ask her.
“Yeah. In his office.” Her voice is quiet.
“Thank you,” I tell her, striding away with confidence toward the king’s lair, Asher at my side and swords at the ready.
The door is open as we approach, and when I turn into the room, he’s sitting at his desk, the large stained-glass window at his back, casting a rainbow of colors across the room. But he’s gray and somber—the opposite of the man who let his sweet wife install it. My gaze drops to him, but not before shooting back up at the glass.
What the actual fuck?
It’s different.
It’s wrong.
It’s not the portrait of him and my smiling mother, crafted from thousands of glass shards. Now, standing ceiling high is a portrait of him and … Adrianna.
“Boys. Come in.” He doesn’t bother looking up, his face buried in work, and I’m glad he doesn’t because I might actually stab him if he dares meet my eye after what he’s done in here.
Asher shuts the door behind us, not wanting anyone to possibly overhear our conversation. But at this point, I don’t even know if there will be one because I’m seconds from ruining the entire meeting.
“How was your trip?” Asher asks.
I glare at his attempt at small talk, gesturing to the glass. He follows my instruction, and when he sees the piece that has replaced our mom on the wall, his face falls, along with his shoulders.
Our father sits up, clasping his hands and giving us his full attention. His eyes are hollow, void of all emotion and light. “Cut to the chase. What do you both want?”
Everything I’ve prepared, every heartfelt statement to help coax him from the edge of insanity, is gone because the man I came to talk to is no longer here. He’s been replaced with a robot look-alike of my father, who I don’t know at all.
I planned on taking charge, handling the serious conversation—because I always do. When it comes to us three, I play the middleman.
But right now, I’m at a loss for words, frozen in place as rage boils to the surface, taking over completely. How could the man I’ve come to love and admire turn into a completely different person in such a short span of time?
“Hello?” my father asks with annoyance, waving his hand in front of him impatiently.
“Dean?” Asher whispers softly.
My gaze shifts from the dead look in my father’s eyes to the image glowing behind him. I spent years running into this very room, excited to visit him, and every single time, I would stare at the art of my parents who were happily in love. But when we lost her, we might as well have fucking lost him too.
“What have you done?” My voice breaks, deep but soft, as any semblance of respect for him fades away. I can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes as I search the glass for my mom’s smile. Anger bubbles up in my next words. “What the fuck have youdone?”
