“You know,” she begins softly, “a daughter has a way of teaching her father what the entire world never could… that love isn’t about strength, it’s about surrender. It changes the architecture of a man’s heart forever.”
The clock ticks once between us.
Then she tilts her head, her expression gentle but searching.
“Where is she now, Nathan?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Chapter 34
Ella
Ashton drums her fingers on the wheel, humming along to a throwback playlist that’s been rotating through Michelle Branch and early 2000s Eminem. The sun’s barely up, and she’s already had two iced coffees. Meanwhile, I’m just trying not to sweat through my sundress.
The sun slips through the windows in fractured patterns, flickering across the dashboard like nervous fingers tapping out a code.
Finally, Ashton reaches forward, turns the music down, and glances sideways at me.
“Okay, so he is coming today, right?”
I nod at her, hoping it’s true.
Ashton shifts in the driver’s seat, twisting halfway around toward me. “So… I did another thing.”
I sigh. “If this is about the letter, I’m begging you — don’t.”
“It’s not,” she says. “Well. Not exactly. I just— like with Taylor Pierce — I looked up Maddison.”
“Ashton.”
“What? I was curious.”
“You’re always curious about things that aren’t your business.”
“I couldn’t find anything,” she continues anyway. “No socials, nothing. But I did find a LinkedIn. Turns out she’s a lawyer.”
My phone buzzes in my lap.
“I sent the photo.”
I don’t reach for it.
“Ella,” she presses, “just look. Don’t you want to know who wrote that letter?”
I exhale and open the message. The headshot fills the screen — neutral background, professional smile. Something about her face tugs at the back of my mind. She looks familiar. I frown slightly, then shake it off.
Everyone looks familiar.
I lock the screen and drop the phone back into my lap. “Happy?” I say. “Now, please stop stalking strangers.”
Ashton scoffs. “Research is not stalking.”
“It is when I didn’t ask for it.”
“Ok, fair, but…are we going to talk about this letter?” she finally asks, her tone deceptively casual but edged with curiosity. “Who is Maddison? What are those keys for? And why does he keep getting all those texts from a private investigator? I mean, seriously, Ella, why doesn’t he ever open up? At least share a little?”
Her words came rapid-fire, each question a pebble hitting water, rippling through me. Before I can respond, she leans back, letting theories spill in a thoughtful stream.
