<b>Chapter </b><b>98 </b>
“Sunday evening, if all goes well,” he replied, his voice lowering slightly in a way that made my skin warm. “I miss you, Reba.”
Those simple words sent a flutter through my chest, tightening my throat with emotion I hadn’t expected. “I miss you too, I admitted, surprised by how true it was after just one day apart. The intensity of my own feelings was bothforting and frightening.
We discussed my ns to visit my father, who was still recovering but doing better. Dominic insisted that Raymond drive me, despite my protests about being perfectly capable of taking a bus.
“Let me take care of you, Reba. This isn’t charity—it’s what I want to do,” he said, his tone leaving little room for argument. I found myself giving in, too tired to fight and secretly grateful for the offer.
After we’d talked about his schedule and my uing sses, afortable silence fell between us.
“Good night, little doe,” he finally said, his voice a warm caress. “Sleep well.”
“Good night, Dominic,” I replied softly, reluctant to end the call but feeling my eyelids growing heavy.
On Sunday, I stood in front of my family’s apartment door, clutching a bouquet of fresh flowers. My fingers tightened around the stems as I stared at the peeling paint on the door frame. The yellow tulips, purple hyacinths, and white daisies felt heavy in my hands, matching the weight in my chest.
Taking a deep breath, I recalled Dominic’s voice from our phone conversation several days ago. “Take care of yourself, little doe,” he’d said, his tone dropping to that intimate register he reserved just for me. My skin had warmed at the sound, and even now, the memory sent a small shiver down my spine.
I pressed the doorbell, my heart rate quickening as I heard movement inside. The door swung open to reveal my mother, her hands still damp from washing clothes, thin lines of exhaustion etched around her eyes.
‘Reba!” Her face transformed instantly, eyes crinkling as she pulled me into a tight embrace. The familiar scent ofundry detergent clung to her sweater. “Come in,e in! Your father will be so happy to see you.”
The apartment was small but tidy. Potted nts lined the windowsill–mom’s attempt to bring life into the cramped space<b>. </b>The family portrait hanging on the wall showed us from five years ago–before Dad’s illness, when Jason still smiled without resentment, when I still believed in William.
Mom took <b>the </b>flowers from my hands, her eyes brightening. “These are beautiful, thank you, sweetheart.”
<b>I </b>stepped into the living room and felt my shoulders loosen at what I saw. Dad was sitting in the corner, performing gentle rehabilitation exercises, extending each leg with careful determination. His color looked better–the sickly pallor reced by a healthier tone, his eyes clear and alert.
…
“Becky!” He stopped his movements, arms outstretched toward me.
On the sofa, Jason lounged with his attention fixed on his phone screen. Despite the doorbell and themotion of my arrival, he hadn’t bothered to look up. His posture was deliberatelyzy, feet propped on the coffee table, wearing what appeared to be brand new sneakers.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the executive assistant gracing us with her presence,” Jason finally nced up, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His eyes, so simr to mine in color, were cold with resentment. “Did you bring Mr. Sterling’s
regards? Or just stopping by to make sure we peasants are surviving?”
1
My jaw clenched. I forced my breathing to remain steady as I deliberately turned away from him, walking straight to my father and bending down for a hug. “Dad, you look so much better. The flowers are for all of you.”
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