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Between Gray and Hank both missing, I have a 24/7 security detail. Hank still has not returned to U.S. soil, and Nate lost his trail after he left the hotel and got into an unmarked car.
Marcus is one of George's men and is around Nate's age. He was personally trained by George for years, which was why he was chosen for the role.
He dips his chin, and without a word, he falls into step slightly behind me. We make our way to the side entrance, avoiding the press waiting in the back by the main doors. Rhys's hand never leaves mine, and I know he won't let go until the last minute. He’s my anchor. He is worried, and if I'm honest, I am too. Not for my safety, but for how the audience will take what we have to say.
The press conference is to start in ten minutes, and the room is already buzzing. I stop abruptly when I step onstage and notice that the block of chairs has been moved back twenty feet. My eyes find Nate's, who's standing next to an uncomfortable Doctor Stern, and he slowly moves toward us. He is dressed in a custom navy suit, white shirt, no tie. We look like we color-coordinated.
"George and the hotel’s head of security decided to put distance between us and, uh...the families."
Oh.
I bite my bottom lip and look between my brother and the first row. Before I can say anything, Rhys speaks up.
"Good." He nods at Nate. "We have no fucking clue how this will go down."
I bite harder. They are right, but I can't help the guilt that's settling in my stomach. We are about to turn these people's lives upside down as much as we will give them closure.
As much as we can after what my brother did.
I scan the room, and most of the seats are already taken. I'm met with nervous glances as well as glares from the first two rows. I should've expected that after everything that went down when I reappeared. I see almost everyone, except Ava Conway. Her mother is there with a woman that must be her sister. But neither Ava nor her father, who had demanded my interrogation, are present.
Ava's mother meets my gaze, and I avert my eyes, my mouth going dry. In the fourth row, I spot Heather and Tristen quietly talking to another man. Henry.
As if he senses my stare, he turns his head, and it's the first time—that I remember—I see him in person. He does a double-take, and I swallow against the needles in my throat. I squeeze Rhys's hand, making him follow my gaze.
Leaning closer, he whispers, "Go to him."
I jerk my head around. "I...I can't." The nervousness I felt entering this room is replaced by the imminent fear of facing the man who was held hostage for a decade because of me. My free hand finds my lower abdomen.
I feel sick.
"Well"—Rhys glances back toward the audience—"he’s coming to you."
Every muscle in my body tenses, and I slowly swivel in the same direction. Henry is in his wheelchair and slowly approaching the podium. As if giving me an out, he doesn't avert his eyes from mine. One signal, and he'd turn around.
When he is right in front of the stage, my feet slowly move toward him. There was never a question of me stopping him. A multitude of emotions causes my stomach to somersault. I'm glad that I skipped breakfast today.
With Rhys on my heels, I descend the four steps and come to a halt in front of—
"Daddy?" my barely audible voice breaks. I feel my insides shatter like a crystal chandelier plummeting to the ground, breaking into a million shards and pieces. My hands fly to my mouth as I take in every inch of his face.
Henry's eyes spill over, and he pushes himself out of the wheelchair. Rhys steps to his side for support, but he shakes his head. Fully upright, his arms fall to his sides, and I launch myself at the man I only consciously know from my migraines. Subconsciously, a deep-routed sensation starts spreading through me. He was my father for my first six years. He is still my father. I never got to meet Brooks, but I have Henry and Tristen. He wraps his arms around me, and I squeeze his midsection.
"Hey, honey." His voice is deep and smooth. I can feel his chest rise and fall against my cheek while his hand cups the back of my head. I don't remember him, yet I do. It makes no sense, and at the same time, it makes perfect sense.
"I’m so sorry, Daddy." I’m sobbing, ruining his light-blue dress shirt and most definitely my makeup, but I don’t care.
"Shhh," he soothes. "You have nothing to be sorry for." He pulls back and searches my face. "We have all the time in the world to talk. I'm not going anywhere."
I nod, wiping with one hand under my eyes. Glancing to the side, Heather is mimicking my motion under her own eyes, and so is Denielle. A hand touches my shoulder, and I turn, facing George.
"It’s time."
Already? I look back at Henry, suddenly unsure and feeling like a little girl.
He gives me an encouraging smile. "I’ll be right over there." He tilts his head toward the edge of the fourth row.
I nod hesitantly, unable to form words. My knees feel weak, and I’m not sure I can make it back up the steps to the stage.
