Page 60 of The Truth of Us

I huffed a laugh.

“That is your opening?”

“It seemed safer than asking why my daughter looks like someone cut her heart out and expected her to thank them for the experience.”

My breath caught, and I had to swallow down the pain. He took a sip of wine as if he had not just disarmed me completely, as I moved to the sofa beside him and tucked my feet under me.

“I’m fine.”

“My angel.” Two words that held so much weight. A reminder that lies were unnecessary here.

I looked at the fire instead of him. The flames moved over the logs, bright and restless. For a while, the room was quiet except for the crackle of wood and the soft ticking of the antique clock on the mantel.

Finally, he asked, “Was it real?”

I closed my eyes. That question hurt more than any accusation could have. Because if he had asked if Elliot hurt me, I could answer. If he had asked if I was angry, I could answer. But real?

I didn’t know how to answer that anymore. I thought about Elliot’s hands warm against my stomach. His voice when he said what if it was something different. The way he looked at me when I had brought him cake on his birthday..

Then I heard his voice calling me a whore for hire.

My laugh sounded hollow even to me. “Not enough to stop him from hurting me.”

My father’s jaw tightened. One slight movement, barely there, but I knew him. Alexander Montgomery could destroy companies with less visible reaction.

“What did he do?”

I shook my head. “Not tonight.”

He studied me for a moment, then nodded once. Because my father understood grief, and that some wounds needed time before words. He opened one arm, and I moved immediately, curling into his side the way I had when I was little and nightmares felt too big for my bed.

He smelled like pine, winter air, and the same cologne he had worn my entire life.

My mother used to say it made him smell like a handsome forest, and he had pretended to hate that. But he had worn it every day after she died.

I rested my head against his shoulder, his hand moved over my hair slowly.

The fire crackled, the wine breathed, and outside, snow started falling again. For the first time in days, I let myself feel tired.

After a while, I whispered, “Tell me the story.”

His chest moved beneath my cheek with a quiet chuckle.

“Oh?”

I smiled even though my throat still hurt. “The story.”

“The one you have heard a thousand times?” He asked, but I could hear the emotion he was trying to hide.

“The greatest love story of all time,” I said, because that was how he used to say it when I was little.

He laughed softly, and the sound cracked something open in me. In the way old houses settle around winter storms, or memories make room for you.

“My version or your mother’s?” he asked.

“Yours makes you sound heroic.”

“I am heroic.” he scoffed.