Because Hayden is alive and somehow… my father buried him anyway.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he says smoothly without looking up.
I force a smile so fake it hurts my cheeks. “Morning,” I say as his eyes finally lift towards me, assessing.
Always assessing.
“You look tired,” he states, and I almost laugh.
Instead, I just smile.
“It was Brayden’s fight last night. Got in late,” I say, and his expression softens slightly.
“I heard he lost. Disappointing nonetheless,” he states, and I nod.
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” I say, sitting down and taking a sip of the orange juice that was left for me.
“How is school going?” he asks.
“Stressful.”
“You need to stop being so emotional all the time, Ophelia. It clouds your judgement,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
If he only knew.
If he only knew Hayden Marks crawled out of the grave he buried him in.
Instead of saying another word, I eat my breakfast in peace and then we leave for church.
An hour later, I’m suffocating in this place. Everyone smiles too much. Speaks too softly. Pretends too perfectly. Old women squeeze my hands telling me how beautiful I’ve become whilemen discuss business deals beneath stained-glass windows like God isn’t listening.
I sit beside my father with my hands folded neatly in my lap while the pastor speaks about forgiveness.Forgiveness.
My throat tightens painfully.
How am I supposed to forgive when my entire life feels like one giant lie?
Every now and then I catch myself glancing toward the church doors expecting Hayden to appear there somehow. Dark clothes. Green eyes, but he would never come here.
He told me once when we were running around the abandoned church at fourteen years old he would burn if he stepped foot inside, that there’s no holy water that will ever save a monster like him.
I smile at the memory.
Ugh, to go back in time to when things were much simpler.
After church, my father’s mask slips the second we get in the car. Silence stretches thick between us while the driver pulls away from the cathedral.
Then finally—
“What happened at the Dungeon?” he asks, and ice floods my veins instantly.
“Nothing,” I answer, staring out the window.
“Do not insult my intelligence.” His voice sharpens. “Brayden called me a few minutes ago furious. Apparently, you embarrassed him publicly,” he accuses.
Good.
I say nothing, and my father exhales slowly through his nose. “You are becoming increasingly difficult to manage,” he grits.
