“Good girl.”
The words, simple as they were, nearly broke me.
“Dad,” I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“No,” he said sharply. “You are done apologizing for surviving.”
I closed my eyes.
In the background, I heard other voices. Movement. Doors opening. My father was not alone anymore.
“Listen carefully,” he continued. “A car will arrive in twelve minutes. Mrs. Harlow will be inside.”
Mrs. Harlow.
My father’s personal attorney.
The woman whose stare could make board members forget their own names.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“My daughter is coming home,” he said. “And Cleveland is about to remember her name.”
The line went dead.
I stood very still.
Outside, the night deepened over Shaker Heights. The mansion lights glowed warmly, pretending nothing had changed. Somewhere across the city, Julian was laughing under chandeliers with his mistress on his arm.
He did not know my father had seen the video.
