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“Lying now won’t change the outcome,” he growls. “I have all the proof I need.”
“My name isn’t Charlotte Maxwell.”
He scoffs.
“Look at the ID in my purse. Charlotte is—was—my mother. She’s been dead for years.”
“There would be no other reason for my dad to support a woman he isn’t fucking.” He gets even closer, the stench on his breath so nauseating, I have to turn my head to keep from directly inhaling.
“He’s my father,” I rush out. “Not my lover.”
“But Charlotte—”
“My mother had an affair with him. Not me. I’ve never met the man.”
Weston takes a step back, confusion drawing his brow together. “What?”
“It’s hush money. He’s been depositing it since before I was born. He didn’t want my mother interfering with his real family.” I swallow with those confessions. The word real coming out a little strangled. “He probably doesn’t even know she’s dead.”
“I don’t—what?” His hand presses to his forehead, and it’s the first time I notice the gun, his finger on the trigger which I know from the shooting class is a big no-no.
“Why don’t we have a seat and talk about it,” I suggest. “I’m not your enemy, Weston. I’m your half-sister.”
“That’s not possible,” he says, but the anger he approached me with is starting to fade, giving way to a slew of different emotions that are hard to decipher right now. “You’re lying!”
He points the gun at me, and all I can think about is how I wished I was more persistent in the last couple of weeks. I should’ve used my credit card to gain access to Jude’s apartment like I did once before. I should’ve shown up at his office and demand he talk to me.
Hell, I never should’ve walked away when he wanted me to. I should’ve stayed and fought. Not because I know I’d be in his arms right now instead of here with a drunken crazy man who thinks I’ve ruined his mother’s life. I should’ve stayed and fought harder because I know with him is exactly where I want to be.
But none of that matters now. He’ll never hear I’m sorry. He’ll never look in my eyes and know that I want to be with him.
Jesus, now is not the time for an existential crisis.
“Just let me show you my driver’s license,” I urge as I hold out the clutch I carried for the wedding. “I’m not lying. Your dad—our father—is the one that’s been leading more than one life.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t pull the trigger when I unsnap my clutch and pull my license out. He snaps it from my hand, gun still trained on me as he looks down. I don’t have a clue how he can read it in the near darkness of the room or if his drunken eyes can actually read it, but the hostility just drains out of him as it flutters to the floor.
“What have I done?” He stumbles back, body falling to the sofa when his calves bump against it.
With his head dropped between his hands, I have a choice to make. Do I run for it and call the police, or do I sit and talk with the man I’m certain planned to murder me tonight?
My head tells me one thing while my heart goes the opposite direction. In the end, I choose to stay. He’s been hurt by Weston Lewis, Jr. as much as I have, only he’s coming to terms with the man not being who he thought he was, and I imagine that’s worse than knowing from day one that my father is horrific.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” I tell him as I take a seat on the other couch.
His eyes are wet when he looks up at me. “How did your mom die?”
Of all the things he could ask, he dives right into the one thing that still has power over my life.
“She killed herself.”
“Because of my dad?”
I nod. “She loved him. I don’t think he manipulated her. I doubt he ever told her he loved her or made her believe that they could have a future together, but my mom had it in her head that they would eventually be together. Even after years and years of no contact with him, she was still hopeful. One day, she just lost all hope. She was living for him, and when she realized it was never going to happen, she—”
“Decided living wasn’t worth it,” he finishes.
“Yeah.” I want to reach for him, but that would be foolish. He still has the gun, and he’s still intoxicated. There’s no telling what’s going on in his head right now, but I can guarantee it isn’t fully rational. “I’m not going to call the police or anything. I should’ve told you who I was when you were here before.”
“It doesn’t matter if you call the police or not,” he says, a dejected tone to his voice.
