Chapter 110

Lila’s POV

The words wouldn’t leave me.

“I miss you.”

They clung to me, echoing like an unwanted melody, refusing to fade. I had replayed them in my head a hundred times since Drew’s voice, low and unsteady, drifted through the line before dissolving into silence.

A war was brewing inside me. For some weird reason I was hoping he might say more, something, anything at all to anchor his confession. What did he actually mean when he said he missed me. Was it just missing my presence or was there more. I wanted answers but all I heard was the rhythm of his breathing, heavy and uneven, until it softened into sleep.

What was I supposed to do with words like that? I had no idea and I just sat there for hours cracking my head about this difficult man called Drew. How could someone so cold burn so hot too.

Did he mean them, or were they just whiskey soaked fragments spilling from a man too tired to hold his guard up? Did they belong to the Drew who had cut me down with suspicion, who had looked at me as though I were the enemy? Or to another version of him, the one who had once been gentle, the one who had reached for me when I had not known if I could stand alone?

I rubbed my temple, sighing. I did not know. And maybe I was not ready to know.

What I did know was that I could not let myself spiral. I had already spiraled enough, through heartbreak, through fear, through nights spent convincing myself I wasn’t broken beyond repair. Right now, the only thing I could be certain of was the small, steady life inside me, the one that kicked against my palm as if to remind me that life was growing inside of me and I should give him or her my full focus.

It was getting very late and I knew I should be sleeping but sleep did not come.

I dragged myself to bed eventually, more out of routine than hope, but it was useless. I tossed and turned, my body restless, my mind tangled. Each time I closed my eyes, Drew’s voice returned, softer now, but no less haunting.

“I miss you.”

What did he mean? Miss what, exactly? Miss me as his contract worker, the one he paid to do his work for him? Miss me as the woman who had foolishly let a line blur, the one who had let herself feel things she should not have? Or was it something else entirely?

And if he did miss me, why now? Why not when he was pushing me away, when his silence had cut deeper than any words? Why not when I needed him to trust in me?

I lay there, staring at the ceiling until the pale streaks of dawn painted it a dull silver. My body was heavy, but my mind refused to rest and by the time the first gray light of morning slipped through the curtains, I felt like I had aged a year in a single night.

When I finally rose, the floor felt colder than usual beneath my feet. I padded to the kitchen, hoping breakfast and a cup of tea might ground me. I couldn't believe I stayed awake all through the night because of one single phone call. Drew always brought that kind of chaos to me, the chaos that took away sleep.

The kettle hissed. The bread toasted slowly. Still, everything felt muted, like I was moving through fog. Even the clink of the spoon against the mug was dull, not sharp enough to feel real.

That was when Dad came in.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he said, stretching as he entered. His robe hung loosely, his hair sticking up in every direction, but his eyes, sharp as ever, landed on me instantly.

“Morning, Dad,” I replied, forcing a brightness that felt thin. “Want some tea?”

“Yes please” he said, lowering himself into a chair.

I set a mug in front of him, but his gaze lingered. He watched me too closely, the way he always did when something was wrong. Dad had never been good at pretending not to notice things.

“You look tired,” he said, his voice steady but probing. “Did you sleep well?”

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the countertop. “Not really. Just… one of those nights.”

He hummed, the sound low and skeptical. His chair scraped against the tile in the kitchen as he shifted, folding his hands around the mug.

“Something’s on your mind,” he said after a moment. “Want to talk about it?”

The question stung more than I wanted it to.

I froze, my fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. For a moment, I considered telling him everything, about the call, about Drew’s slurred confession, about the way it had cracked open a part of me I thought I had sealed shut or you can say tried to seal shut. But then, the thought of saying Drew’s name aloud in this kitchen, with Dad sitting across from me, made my stomach twist.

He had been protective from the moment I came home. Too protective sometimes, though I could not blame him. He had seen me broken, had helped hold me together with his quiet strength. If he knew Drew had called, especially in the state he was in, Dad would not just be upset. He would be furious. He would want to protect me all over again, maybe even confront Drew himself.

And I was not sure I could handle his anger on top of my confusion.

So I shook my head, forcing my voice to stay light. “It’s nothing, Dad. Really. I just could not shut my brain off.”

His brow furrowed deeper. He did not look convinced. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes dad,” I said quickly, too quickly. My smile wobbled, but I held it. “I will nap later. Don’t worry about me.”

He leaned back, watching me closely. Silence stretched, thick and weighted. Finally, he nodded, though I could see the doubt still in his eyes. He never fully believed me when I tried to hide.

I sank into the chair across from him, stirring my untouched tea just to keep my hands busy. The silence between us was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy with everything I was not saying, everything he probably guessed anyway.

He took a slow sip from his mug, his gaze still steady. “You know, Lila,” he said after a long pause, “you have never been good at hiding when something is wrong. Not from me.”

I let out a weak laugh, though it caught in my throat. “Guess I did not inherit Mom’s poker face.”

“Maybe not.” He studied me for a beat longer. “But you inherited her tendency to carry too much on your own. And that’s what worries me.”

I swallowed, my throat tight. His words sank deeper than I wanted them to.

“I am fine, Dad,” I whispered, though I did not even believe it.

He did not push, not exactly. He just sighed, his expression softening. “You don’t have to tell me now. But I hope you know that whatever it is, you do not have to carry it alone.”

My chest ached. I wanted to believe that, to lean on him the way I used to when I was younger, when problems could be solved with ice cream or a bedtime story. But this was not something simple. This was Drew. This was me, still bleeding in places I thought had healed.

So I nodded, offering the safest truth I could. “I know.”

Dad did not press any further. He returned to his tea, his presence steady and familiar. But his eyes never left me for long, and I knew he would circle back when I least expected it.

Inside, though, my thoughts were screaming.

Should I have told him? Should I have confessed that the man he despised for hurting me had whispered he missed me, as if those words could erase everything? And worse I wanted to believe it and hold on to it.

Would Dad have understood my hesitation and my doubt? Or would he have told me what a part of me already feared, that Drew’s words probably meant nothing, that they were nothing more than the drunken rambling of a man I could not trust?

I did not know.

So I sat there, sipping tea I could not taste, staring at the steam as though it held answers. My father drank quietly across from me, his presence steady, his love unspoken but steady.

And though I had not said a word, It looked like he already knew it was because of Drew.