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“Damien, please talk to me. Are we still visiting your grandfather this weekend?”
“Well, darling, if I leave, he’ll have nowhere to go. No one to care for him.” Her voice turned sly. “Except his only surviving child.”
“What do you want?” I asked coldly.
But that wasn’t what was eating at me as I stared at my phone. Again, no response from
Damien.
I crossed my arms. “You’re the man who stole my inheritance, abused me my entire childhood, and tried to frame me for corporate fraud. The courts decided what you deserved. It’s not my place to overrule them.”
“You could show some respect and call him ‘Father,” Eleanor snapped.
Room 112 was at the end of an open–air corridor. I knocked briskly, bracing myself for whatever awaited me.
I sat motionless for several minutes, questioning my own decision. Why would I voluntarily face the two people who had caused me the most pain in my life? Was it curiosity about my father’s condition? Morbid satisfaction at seeing his downfall? Or some misguided hope for closure?
“He lost that title years ago,” I replied evenly, my eyes never leaving the pathetic figure on the bed. “Prison didn’t agree with you, I see.”
I laughed, the sound harsh even to my own ears. “If you’re threatening to abandon him on my doorstep, go ahead. I’ll call the police and have him removed as a trespasser.” “I’ll be there in an hour,” I said, hanging up before she could respond.
She sighed dramatically. “Your father was released from prison yesterday. His health is terrible.”
“Not yet,” I replied, rubbing my temples. “Give me an hour.”
I watched the message send, then stared at the screen until it dimmed, no response forthcoming.
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Harrison caught his breath, wheezing slightly. “The doctors say I need specialized treatment. My liver is failing”
There was a pause, then Eleanor’s voice dropped its pretense. “He needs money for treatment. The government healthcare in prison was insufficient.”
Chapter 139 – The Cold Shoulder and Colder Memories
“Room number?”
I nearly choked. “You must be delusional.”
A cold smile spread across my face as memories flooded back–of crying alone in a locked closet, of being denied food as punishment, of watching my own father destroy every possession I treasured.
Whatever my reasons, I found myself driving to the seedy motel an hour later. The Golden Leaf was as depressing as its name suggested–peeling paint, flickering neon sign, and a parking lot filled with dented cars.
“Hazel,” he croaked, his voice a shadow of its former commanding tone.
This weekend was supposed to be our visit to Grandfather Sterling’s estate. But with Damien not speaking to me, I had no idea if that was still happening.
“I’ll tell you what,” I cut in, surprising myself with the offer that formed in my mind. “I’ll come see him. Today. Where are you staying?”
“We’re all dying, Eleanor. Some of us just have more karma to work through than others.”
“I’m not here to excite anyone,” I said. “I’m here to understand why you think I owe either of you anything, let alone two hundred thousand dollars.”
“You’ve never been my mother. State your business.”
Harrison attempted to sit up, triggering a violent coughing fit. Eleanor rushed to his side, shooting me a venomous look over her shoulder.
My desk phone rang, startling me from my thoughts. I answered absently.
Eleanor opened the door, her once–immaculate appearance now bedraggled. Her designer clothes had been replaced by discount store items, her manicure chipped,
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her hair dull and limp.
Eleanor positioned herself between us. “He’s suffering, Hazel. Have you no compassion?”
I waited, saying nothing. Harrison Ashworth’s health problems weren’t my concern.
Everything with Giselle Grayson was finally resolved. She’d gotten off with a suspended sentence after a public apology to me. Justice served? Not really. But it was the best I could expect from a society that coddles the rich and powerful.
“He’s your father!”
“And?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Hazel.” The voice sent ice through my veins.
“And I’m your father!” he barked, the effort clearly costing him.
“He stopped being my father the day he watched you force me to stand naked in the snow for spilling tea on your carpet. Or have you forgotten?”
After she left, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. Was this our first real fight? It felt monumental, like the ground beneath our new relationship was shifting. More terrifying still was the possibility that Damien had decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.
“Is that any way to speak to your mother?” Her false sweetness hadn’t changed a bit. Eleanor Ashworth. My stepmother.
“Hazel Ashworth speaking.”
I remained by the door, maintaining maximum distance. “Harrison.”
“So this is a shakedown?” I tapped my pen against the desk. “How much?”
“Two hundred thousand would cover immediate needs.”
“You actually came,” she said, stepping aside to let me in.
Eleanor paused, clearly thrown off by my suggestion. “The Golden Leaf Motel o
Westside Drive.”
I tossed my phone onto my desk, frustration gnawing at my insides. This wasn’t like
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Damien at all. Even when upset, he’d always been responsive, always willing to talk things through. But now? Complete radio silence.
“And this concerns me how?” I asked flatly.
Three days. Three days of silence since our argument about the villa transfer. I’d called, texted, even stopped by his office once, only to be politely but firmly rebuffed by his secretary, Kendall.
“112. But why would you-”
“You wouldn’t,” she gasped, though I could tell she wasn’t truly shocked. “He’s dying. Hazel.”
“The thing is,” Eleanor continued, “I can’t take care of him. I’m thinking of leaving him.”
Cherry knocked lightly on my office door. “The fabric samples from Milan arrived. Do
you
want to look at them now?”
“See what you’ve done?” she hissed. “He can’t handle excitement.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Ashworth. Mr. Sterling is in meetings all day,” she’d said with professional detachment. “I’ll let him know you came by.”
“How much suffering can it be?” I asked, my voice like ice. “Is it more suffering than when I was stripped naked and forced to stand in the ice and snow as a child by you
all?”
Her voice turned vicious. “You ungrateful little-”
“Is this what the cold treatment feels like?” I muttered to myself, shuffling design sketches without really seeing them.
Oddly, his silence made him more real to me. Before this, Damien had seemed almost too perfect–unfailingly supportive, endlessly patient, impossibly understanding. Now I was seeing his limits, his capacity for hurt and anger. It made him human. And somehow, that made me love him even more desperately.
He turned his head slightly at my entrance, rheumy eyes widening in rec
ition.
I picked up my phone again and typed another message.
The room smelled of disinfectant and disease. In the far bed lay a shrunken figure I
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barely recognized as Harrison Ashworth. My father had once been a robust, intimidating man whose mere footsteps would send me scrambling to hide. Now he looked like a deflated version of himself, his skin sallow and hanging loosely on his
frame.
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