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Finding the door slightly ajar, I peek my head inside, expelling a relieved breath when my father’s alone.
The study is relatively dark, the only source of light coming from a small lamp on the mahogany desk. I scan my father’s frame as he stands in front of the built-in shelves, a framed photo in his hand. He looks…devastated. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him display emotion like this. It was probably when my mother died. Even then, I can’t be sure. I was too young.
“Dad?” I say, pushing the door open and stepping into the study.
He snaps his head up.
I haven’t seen him much over the past several years, apart from the occasional photo or video posted online. Regardless, he looks like he’s aged ten years in the past two. His hair is all gray, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth even more prominent. His eyes are bloodshot, as if he’s been crying or having trouble sleeping.
Maybe both.
It’s odd to see him like this. For him to look so…human.
All my life, he’s had a commanding persona. He had to, considering the weight he carries on his shoulders. There’s a reason for the saying, “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
Right now, my father looks absolutely crushed by the weight he’s been carrying. Not from leading this country, but due to Anderson’s unexpected diagnosis.
“Esme,” he exhales as he strides toward me, not even hesitating in wrapping his arms around me.
At one time, his hugs felt forced, more for show than anything else. Not this one. This time, he squeezes me tightly, holding me longer than he has in years.
“How are you?” he asks once he pulls back. But he doesn’t let go, his hands still gripping my biceps as if my presence is the only thing offering him even a modicum of comfort.
“Hanging in there,” I answer honestly. “You?”
He blows out a laugh. “Hanging in there.” He takes a moment to compose himself before releasing me, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. “Won’t you sit down?”
I go to the chair and lower myself into it, crossing my legs at the ankles and angling my knees down. It’s been ages since I’ve been required to sit like this, but old habits are hard to break, especially in this place. I don’t even have to think about it, just do it out of custom, something in my brain signaling my body how to act.
I face forward, expecting my father to sit behind the desk. He doesn’t, though, assuming the chair next to mine.
“I had Captain Walsh drive you here so I could ask something of you. Something I have no right to ask, but I’m going to do it all the same.”
I moisten my lips, smoothing my clammy hands down my dress. “What’s that?”
“I’d like for you to consider staying in Belmont a while. Your brother’s going through something extremely difficult.”
I draw my shoulders back, forcing myself to stay calm, despite how unsettling his request is. “I’m aware.”
“He needs all the support he can get right now.” He runs a hand over his face, tracing the creases of worry and regret, his eyes hollowed-out pools of sorrow. “I won’t sit here and pretend I’ve been a good father to either of you. I know I haven’t.”
“You’ve been better.”
I’m not sure if it’s what I said to him after I finally stood up for myself and ended things with Jameson, but during my time in Paris, he’s reached out to me. Told me how proud he was of everything I’ve been trying to accomplish, not just in culinary school, but also in founding a community initiative that teaches trafficking victims necessary skills to obtain gainful employment.
While I may not be able to open my own restaurant, not with who I am, Icanshare my love of cooking and the culinary arts in other ways, teaching these women everything I learned in culinary school, giving them the basic skills they need to survive, preventing them from returning to the life they fought to escape from. To my surprise, my father supported this venture since day one.
“I’m still a work in progress.”
The corners of his mouth turn up, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, sadness clinging to his face.
“But you and Gabriel—Anderson,” he corrects, using the name I call my brother instead of his given first name. “You’ve always shared a special bond. He shouldn’t be alone. Not right now. Your mother…” His voice quivers, tears welling in his eyes. “She pushed us all away. I figured she just needed time to come to terms with everything. I’m not making excuses for my actions,” he adds quickly. “But I was trying to figure out how to run the country, in addition to dealing with all the bullshit the royal household loves to conjure up, usually out of pure boredom.”
Covering my mouth, I stifle a laugh.
It’s refreshing to hear my father has a similar opinion of the royal household as I do. I doubt he would have said this sort of thing to me ten years ago.
“Now I have the benefit of age and experience on my side, something I didn’t possess when your mother isolated herself. I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand by and allow your brother to follow the path she did.” He takes my hand in his and squeezes.
