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)
I glare at him. Utterly appalled by his selfishness. At his audacity. He reaches for my cheek again, but I push his hand away. Not gentle. My breath is ragged.
“You’ll never know what that lie cost me,” I choke out, my voice raw. “Never.”
His face is etched with pain, but he doesn’t back down. “I know all this is hard to hear. If you can forgive me regardless, Amelia, it would mean a lot to me.”
No matter what, he wants his forgiveness. I want to say I forgive him, to ease his suffering, but I can’t. The lie he told burned my life to the ground, and I’m choking on the ashes. My eyes catch my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall—pale, hollow, a stranger staring back.
That lie stole my fire, all my hopes and dreams, and to know it was all for nothing?
I stand, my legs unsteady.
“Please, Amelia,” he begs.
I wipe my tears away. I can feel his gaze follow me, pleading as I walk away. I open the door and find I can’t take another step. I cannot punish a dying man. This is the last thing I can do for him. I turn my head towards his pitiful figure.
“It’s okay, Dad. I forgive you,” I say softly.
“Thank you, Amelia. Thank you.”
I make sure to close the door quietly behind me. Then, I run to my bedroom, the weight of his confession crushing me with every step.
Chapter
Three
MAX
The office is a square of sharp edges—glass desk, steel shelves, the city skyline slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m slouched in my leather chair, the whirr of the AC a low drone under Tom’s voice, my VP of ops, who’s pacing like he’s on a stage.
“Finally! The contract’s in the bag, Max. I'm so impressed, man. New York signed off this morning, full terms, no pushback. We’re set for a Q3 rollout. By the way, I’ve arranged a meeting for Wednesday to hash out the shipping schedule. It works for you, right?” His smile begs for a nod, a scrap of praise.
I tap a pen against the desk. “Wednesday’s too soon. Move it to Friday. I want the cost breakdown first.” My voice is flat, my eyes drifting towards Chicago’s spires glinting under a gray noon sky.
Tom’s enthusiasm deflates, but he murmurs something that sounds like agreement and heads for the door.
“Solid work,” I call after him, more reflex than feeling. "Thank you, sir," he responds, his steps light and happy.
The door clicks shut, and I’m alone; the silence seeps back into my life. Another deal closed, another step up the ladder I’ve climbed to forget her. As soon as I think of her, my chest aches, a dull pulse that never quite fades.
Amelia.
Every day, she’s there, like a ghost in the quiet moments, like a wound I can’t close. Her name is a whisper in my blood, stirring memories I’ve tried to bury for fourteen years—her eyes, the palest green I have ever seen, in the clear morning light, her laugh filling that attic in the sky. I’ve never been happy since I left it. I lean back and run a hand over my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. A knock shatters the stillness, and it’s as sharp as a gunshot.
“Come in,” I say, straightening.
Lisa, my secretary, steps inside, and I can’t help but notice that her usual crisp efficiency is softened by a flicker of hesitation. She is holding a cream envelope in her hand, which she extends to me.
"This came for you. It’s a card.”
A card?
I frown. The word card is jarring in the sterile rhythm of my workday. “What is it about?” My tone’s sharp, a reflex from the unease curling in my gut.
“I don’t know, sir. I didn’t open it. It’s marked private.” She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. “It’s from the Fitzwilliam estate.”
The name hits like a fist, stealing my breath. My hand freezes mid-air, the room tilting as if the floor drops out.
Fitzwilliam. Amelia. John.
A flood of heat and pain rushes in—her lips on mine, the attic’s fairy lights, the cold slap of that study door slamming shut. My heart pounds loudly in my ears as I force my hand to move and receive the envelope full of the past. The paper is cool and smooth against my skin.
“Thanks, Lisa,” I manage.
She nods and slips out, leaving me to my turmoil.
I’m alone again. The card feels like a live wire in my hand. I set it on the desk, unopened, and stare at it, my pulse a wild drumbeat. The Fitzwilliam estate. What the hell could they want? John, that bastard, who called me his son before he shoved a check in my face and sent me packing. Amelia, my… half-sister. Even the thought is a blade lodged in my chest.