There was no anger in her voice. There were no questions of “Where have you been?” There was only concern in her voice.
“I’m sorry,” I choked out.
“No, no…” Her own voice cracked. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Don’t cry, darling. Please don’t cry.”
But she was crying too. I could hear it.
Ten years of hurt sat between us on that line, trembling and raw.
“I should’ve called,” I whispered. “I should have been checking up on you. I wanted to so many times?—”
“I know. I know, darling.” She broke off on a sob. “Your father… I’m getting a divorce. It’s way overdue.”
Shock rolled through me. “Really?”
“Yes, really. He’s the reason I don’t have my daughters.”
“But I was the one who left her that night,” I whispered.
“Listen to me, Violet. That wasn’t your fault.” There was a hard conviction in her voice and I believed it. “Your father is the root of all evil. Never you.”
I shut my eyes hard as tears slid down my cheeks and the kitchen blurred around me.
For the past ten years, those were the exact words I craved to hear. As simple as they were, those words started my own healing.
We talked for a while.
About Lily. She put flowers on her grave last weekend.
About my career. She kept tabs on my education and even came to watch my graduation walk. She read my published work in medical journals.
“I’ll call you again… soon. I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, Violet,” she rasped before hanging up.
I didn’t tell her about Aria. Not yet. I had to talk to Lykos first, and we needed to tell Aria… together.
And then, maybe—just maybe—we could be a real family.
FORTY-THREE
LYKOS
Weeks had slipped by, and life in the penthouse had settled into a comfortable rhythm. The children had found their sense of normal again, often seeking out conversations with Violet and me, while Violet herself had begun to rebuild a fragile, tentative bond with her mother.
Weekdays were harder on her. With the kids at school and my attention tied up with work, the apartment often felt too quiet. But Saturdays quickly became our favorite part of the week. Violet spent those days with Aria, while Dimitros stayed with me.
And today, we had business to attend to.
My driver-slash-bodyguard, Yiorgos, made his way through Athens, easing the Range Rover through the constant tide of scooters while heat blazed outside despite the fact that it was only April. Horns chirped in short, impatient bursts. A delivery truck blocked half the street ahead, forcing everyone into a single narrowing lane, and somewhere nearby music drifted from an open café door.
I watched the city slide past the tinted window in fragments: laundry hanging from narrow balconies, old women talking across apartment windows, graffiti layered over crumbling marble walls. Every few minutes the Acropolis appeared between buildings, sunlit stone hovering above the crowded streets, before vanishing again behind concrete and telephone wires.
Yiorgos muttered something under his breath in Greek and tapped the steering wheel as we lurched forward another few feet.
I barely noticed.
My mind kept circling back to Violet’s father and the pieces of information I’d gathered over the last forty-eight hours.
