My stepmother forced my injured father to crawl across the marble floor just to serve her tea.
She laughed when the cup trembled in his hands and spilled over the bandages wrapped around his wrist.
“Pathetic old man,” Vivian said, lifting one crimson heel and pressing it lightly against his shoulder. “You once owned half this city. Look at you now.”
My father—Richard Hale, founder of Hale Construction—tightened his jaw and stayed silent. His right leg was still damaged from the accident. Several ribs had not healed properly. And his dignity bled worse than any physical wound.
I stood frozen in the doorway with a suitcase still in my hand.
Vivian noticed me first and smiled like a blade.
“Well, well. The runaway princess finally came home.”
I had been gone six years. Law school. Corporate investigations. Quiet conference rooms full of contracts, evidence, and powerful men who mistook calm voices for weakness. I returned because Dad’s nurse sent me one message: Come home. Something is wrong.
Now I understood exactly what she meant.
Behind Vivian stood her son Marcus, proudly wearing my father’s watch.
My father’s watch.
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