Page 50 of Stealing Cinder

I threw their mother's perfume collection in the dumpster myself.

Every trace of Francesca and Edgar has been scrubbed from these walls. The oversized chandeliers are gone, replaced with warm pendants that light the rooms the way my mother intended. The gold-framed mirrors came down. Family portraits went back up. My father's reading glasses sit on the corner of his desk across the hall, right next to the glass jar of peppermints I keep filled because the smell grounds me when grief catches me off guard. And it still does. Less often now, but when it hits, the sting is sharp and sudden, a blade between the ribs that steals my breath and leaves just as fast.

The real estate empire my father built runs under a new structure now. Samuel merged his holdings with my father's, and we oversee everything together. He handles the operations that require his brand of persuasion, and I manage the portfolios, the acquisitions, the legitimate face of a fortune built on blood and love in equal measure.

I hope my father would be proud.

I set the blush brush down. My fingers find the folded piece of paper tucked beneath my jewelry box. The edges are soft from handling, the creases worn thin from being opened and refolded dozens of times. I pull it free and unfold it with care, smoothing it flat against the vanity's surface.

My father's handwriting stares up at me. Neat, slanted, the letters precise because he was a man who believed penmanship mattered.

I found this note two weeks after we moved back in. I'd been sitting at his desk, running my fingers over the wood grain the way I always do when I miss him, and my thumb caught the edge of the secret compartment. A hidden drawer Edgar never discovered. Beneath the velvet lining, pressed flat against the bottom panel, my father had left one final gift.

My eyes move over his words and the tears come before I can stop them.

My sweet girl. If you are reading this, then my worst fears have come true and I am no longer with you. I need you to know that I am aware of what Francesca and Edgar have been doing. I have spent the last several months gathering evidence of their involvement in Society 69. The depth of their corruption runs deeper than I ever imagined. I fear they will act to protect their secret before I can expose them. I am taking precautions, but a father's first duty is to his child, and mine is to make sure you know the truth. You were right about them, Cinder. You tried to warn me and I did not listen. That failure is mine to carry, and I am sorry for it. Everything I have built is yours. Never forget that. Never let them take it from you. I love you more than my own safety, more than my own life. You are the best thing I ever created, and I am so proud of the woman you've become. All my love, always. Dad.

A tear drops onto the paper and I press my finger over it before the ink can bleed. He knew. He tried to fight them. He tried to protect me even when he should have been protecting himself.

"Damn it, Dad." My voice cracks in the quiet room. I press the heel of my hand against my eyes and draw a shaking breath. "You stubborn, beautiful man."

The baby kicks beneath my ribs. A firm little jab followed by a roll that pushes against the silk of my dress. I press my palm over the movement and the ache in my chest shifts. Sorrow and joy braiding together, the way they always do when I think about the people we've lost.

“Oh, little Violet. My sweet girl.”

We're naming her Violet after my mother. My father gave me his love. My mother gave me her fire. And this little girl growing beneath my heart will know both of their names and every story I can tell her.

I refold the note along its worn creases and tuck it back beneath the jewelry box. I wipe my face, fix the mascara smudge under my left eye, and pull my shoulders back.

"Get it together, Ashford." I sniff and give my reflection a firm look. "You have a baby shower to host and forty people downstairs who will lose their minds if the guest of honor shows up with raccoon eyes."

I pause. A correction.

"Payne," I whisper, and the name settles over me with a warmth no amount of silk can match. "Get it together, Payne."

"You're not crying on your baby shower day."

Samuel's voice fills the doorway and I turn on the vanity stool to face him.

My heart is so full. A year and a half together and the sight of this man still punches the air clean out of my chest.

He fills the doorframe the way he fills every room, wide shoulders blocking the hallway light, dark hair pulled into its knot, dark eyes locked on me. His charcoal henley stretches across the chest where a black hole is inked over the place his heart beats. My name sits at the center of that void now, tattooed in script so fine you have to press your lips to his skin to read it. I have. Many times.

But the thing that ruins me and cracks every wall I ever built around my heart, is the baby sleeping against his chest.

Vincent Samuel Payne. Ten months old with a crown of dark hair and his father's steady, unbothered temperament. His tiny fist curls around the collar of Samuel's button down, plump fingers gripping the fabric, his cheek pressed flat against his father's chest. His rosebud mouth is slack with sleep, and the soft rhythm of his breathing lifts his small body in time with his father's.

My scarred, tattooed, six-foot-four husband cradles our son against his chest with care. His free hand rests over Vincent's back, fingers splayed wide, each scarred knuckle a silent promise that nothing in this world will touch this child while he draws breath.

My father never met Samuel. Never shook his hand, never sized him up across the dining table, never gave the speech about treating his daughter right or else. But I like to think he would have taken one look at this man holding his grandson and known he was good.

"I'm not crying." I stand and cross the room, pressing up on my toes to brush my lips over his. He tastes like coffee and the sourdough toast he bakes every morning from a starter he's kept alive longer than most people keep houseplants. At least in my experience.

"Your mascara says otherwise, princess."

"Pregnancy hormones. I'm allowed."

His free hand settles over the curve of my belly. Warm, callused fingers spread wide over the silk, his thumb tracing a slow arc the way he did the first time he touched my bump in my father's study all those months ago. Violet rolls beneath his palm and the way his eyes soften swells my heart with love. The hard lines of his face loosen around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. For one breath, he is not the man Chicago fears. He is just mine.