Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Alright,” I say, setting the brush down.
Mrs. Harrow leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
The silence feels heavy, and I am suddenly seized by the strong and disturbing sensation that something momentous is about to happen. Impulsively, I grasp the whole pile of magazines and, holding them tight to my chest, run from my studio towards my father’s bedroom.
Chapter
Two
AMELIA
My heart is a knotted mess, anger simmering beneath a thin layer of restraint as I fly towards Dad’s room. The staircase feels endless, each step a loud echoing thud. The glossy edges of the magazines bite into my skin, a sharp reminder of why I’m holding them—Max’s face, his success, his life without me.
What am I going to say to Dad?
The question loops in my mind, tangled with resentment.
I want to shove these magazines in his face, demand why he treated Max like garbage, why he cut him off without a word after that night. Not just Max, but eventually, his mom too, was forced out of her job here as if she were nothing. Before he dies, I must ask him how he could do such a thing to his own son? The question fuels my steps.
My breath comes sharp and quick.
But it’s not just anger. There’s pride, fierce and bittersweet, for Max. He’s soared past Dad’s wildest dreams, built an empire worth half a billion, more than this creaking old house and its fading wealth could ever touch. I’m happy for him, God, so happy, but it hurts, a silent, relentless ache in my bones.
We could’ve been something, even as half-siblings—a family, bound by blood if not love. I know it would’ve been hard, seeing him without wanting him, but it would’ve been something. Instead, Dad stole that, too, leaving me with nothing but these pages, these scraps of a life I’ll never share.
The hallway to his room is dim, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and floral room freshener. My flats whisper thickly against the runner, and I slow as I near his door. Its dark oak looms like a judgment. He's sick—I remind myself—and the weight of that presses against my anger, accusing it. I shouldn’t upset him, not when he’s so fragile, his days slipping away.
The magazines suddenly feel like a weapon, their covers screaming Max’s triumphs. I wanted to show him, to make him see how wrong he was about his son, how great Max has become. But now, standing here, I’m not sure I can do that. It feels cruel, rubbing his nose in it when he’s barely holding on. I sigh as my shoulders sag. I decide to keep quiet. These are his final days. Why be petty? What good will it do now?
Let him rest. Let him have peace, even if I don’t.
It’s too late to turn back with the magazines, so I put the stack on the floor by the door. Then I straighten, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. For all his flaws, he is my father, and I love him.
Pushing the door open, I step into the shadowed room of death.
The air’s heavy, tinged with antiseptic cleaner and the stale smell of illness. I move silently. Dad is in bed, a slight figure under the covers, his breathing a faint rasp. He appears to be asleep and I hesitate. I don’t want to wake him. He sleeps so little nowadays with the cancer carving him hollow and pain merciless. I hover, unsure why he called for me, wondering if I should slip out and come back later.
I’ll just make sure he’s okay before I go.
Noiselessly, I ease closer, my fingers brushing the blanket, light as a whisper. I don’t dare do more, not when rest is so rare for him. Sinking into the chair beside the bed, I study his face—wrinkles deep as canyons, skin sallow and thin, the toll of age and disease etched in every line. My chest aches with a lonely, bruising sadness.
He’s my only family, the last tether I have, except for Max, who’s out there somewhere, my supposed half-brother, but a stranger now. Soon, Dad will be gone, and I’ll be alone, no one left to call mine. The thought is a cold wave, pulling me under. I want him to get better, to defy the doctors, but their words echo: He’s terminal. He has weeks left at best. Be prepared to say your final goodbyes. I have to face it, but God, it hurts.
I’m about to stand, to let him sleep, when his hand darts out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist weakly. My heart lurches as I meet his eyes, sunken and clouded with pain. He’s awake, and he looks worse than ever, but his gaze is glittering with urgency. Fear spikes through me. I’ve been so lost in my own head, I haven’t really seen how far he’s slipped. Why, he’s almost at Death’s door.