Chapter One Hundred Thirteen: The Step-Mother

Cecilia called on a Thursday.

I didn't recognize the number. I almost didn't answer. But something made me pick up.

"Elena."

Her voice. I hadn't heard it in months. Not since the engagement party. Not since she'd stood in the living room and pretended not to know about Julian and Mira. Not since I'd walked out the door and never looked back.

"Why are you calling?"

"I need to see you."

"No."

"It's about your father."

I paused. I looked at the phone. I looked at the door.

"What about him?"

"He's sick. He's been sick for months. He didn't want me to tell you. But I thought you should know."

I didn't respond.

"He's in a hospital in the city. He's asking for you."

I hung up.

---

I told Adrian that night.

He was in his office. He was on the phone. He hung up when he saw me.

"You look upset," he said.

"Cecilia called."

He didn't react. He just looked at me.

"What did she want?"

"She said my father is sick. He's in a hospital. He's asking for me."

He leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands.

"Are you going to see him?"

I considered the question. I thought about my father. About his face. About his eyes. About the way he'd looked at me when I walked through the door of his cabin. About the way he'd looked at Daniel. About the way he'd looked at everything.

"I don't know," I said.

He didn't push. He didn't argue. He just looked at me.

"You don't have to decide tonight," he said.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"I know," I said.

---

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I lay in bed. I stared at the ceiling. The cracks hadn't changed. The shadows hadn't moved. The clock ticked.

I got up. I walked to the living room.

Adrian was already there. He was sitting on the couch. He wasn't reading. He wasn't working. He was just sitting.

I sat beside him.

We didn't speak.

After a while, I said, "I don't know what to do."

He didn't ask what I meant. He knew.

"I spent fifteen years hating him. Fifteen years blaming him. Fifteen years telling myself I didn't need him. And now he's sick. And he's asking for me. And I don't know what to do."

He didn't respond. He just waited.

"I don't forgive him," I said. "I don't know if I ever will. But I don't want him to die alone."

He reached for my hand. He took it. His fingers were warm. Steady.

"Then go," he said.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"Go see him. Not for him. For you."

The city hummed outside. The clock ticked. A car passed below. I listened to the sounds of the night.

"Okay," I said.

He didn't reach for me. I didn't reach for him. We sat on the couch, two people who had spent years chasing the same ghost, and watched the city breathe.

Tomorrow, the headlines would run. Tomorrow, the world would move on.

But tonight, the penthouse was quiet, and the sky was clear, and for once, I didn't want to be anywhere else.