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CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
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2025-09-10 19:22:36
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The Fathers of My Child? CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
#Rico’s POV#She’s still asleep.I’m on my side, staring at her face. Her lashes flutter a little like she’s dreaming. Her mouth’s parted just enough to make me want to kiss her again. I don’t know why I’m still staring. I didn’t think I would be. After last night, I thought I’d feel… done. I thought I'd feel lighter and satisfied. Hell, I thought I’d be packing my bags with zero remorse. But I’m still here. And I’m touching her.My fingers slide up to her hair, pushing the strands gently behind her ear. She shifts, sighs, curls in. I lean in and press a kiss to her forehead. Her skin’s still warm.Last night was… more than I expected. It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t the kind of wild, pull-my-hair, scream-into-the-sheets sex Paulina used to throw at me when she was pissed or bored or just wanted control. Dorothy wasn’t like that. It was slow and careful. Like she didn’t know if she was allowed to be touched that way. And damn if that didn’t make it all feel…Intimate.Too intimate.I bl
The Fathers of My Child? CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
#Dorothy’s POV#The wind here doesn’t smell like the villa. It’s not perfumed with citrus or lemon balm or maid-sprayed vanilla. It’s just… clean, cold, too natural. And this place is stunning.The car hadn’t even fully stopped when I noticed the walls were glass, the ceilings slanted like waves. Nature swallows the whole thing, like the estate was dropped here quietly to avoid disturbing the trees around it. Inside, it’s almost too calm. Open-plan everything, warm lights, wide windows, clean linens and two white robes on a bamboo stand near the door. There’s soft instrumental jazz playing from nowhere. Or maybe it’s just in my head.The air smells like wet wood. The kind you only get in places like this.And outside, just beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass panels, there’s a hot spring pool. Actual steam curls off its surface like something out of a fairy tale. I stare at it for a few seconds too long. It makes me feel too many things—things I don’t want to feel, like softness, vulnera
The Fathers of My Child? CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
#Joel’s POV#“I don’t want either of you.”That line. That line has been stuck in my head like gum on a fucking shoe.I sit at my desk and just keep staring at nothing, trying not to feel what I know I’m already feeling. It’s so damn annoying that I can't even put a word to it. It's anger or shock. It’s something messier. Something more painful. It’s not just what she said… it’s how she said it. Her face didn’t even twitch. Her voice didn’t flinch. It was just there, said so plain, empty, and decided.Like she'd been thinking about it for a while.She meant that shit.And what’s worse is I don’t even know why it affects me this deeply. I mean… isn’t that what I wanted? For her to hate me? To give up on me? To stop expecting anything? That’s what I’ve been pushing her toward since day one, right? The constant insults, the emotional ice-cold treatment, the control games—I laid that bed myself.So why the hell am I hurting now that she’s choosing not to lay in it?I scrub my hand down my
The Fathers of My Child? CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
#Dorothy's POV#I don’t even know how I dragged myself into this kitchen.Last night, I spent it coiled on the cold floor of the art room, with oil paint dried on my legs, my palms, and my clothes. No one came looking for me. No one knocked. And that made me weirdly thankful. And painfully alone. The kind of alone that crawls under your skin and lives in your lungs like oxygen. At one point, I heard Rico call my name, gently, like he was scared I’d answer. I didn’t. I closed my eyes and let the ache grow.Maids came with food. I didn’t touch a bite.I stayed there until 3AM. Then I crawled back to my room, peeled off the paint-crusted sweater and slid into the bath. The water didn’t help. It couldn’t reach whatever part of me felt bruised. I’m dressed now. Something big and gray. A grandma’s sweater and baggy pants. I feel like a woman who’s already buried too much of herself to bother trying anymore.But my body still moves.It brought me here.And now I’m standing at the entrance of
The Fathers of My Child? CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
#Joel’s POV#She’s gone. Out the door. She slammed it behind her like the anger she wore on her face wasn’t just real… it was permanent.I sit there, in the same spot. My chair doesn’t feel like a chair anymore. Feels like an execution bench. My hands go to my lap and I touch the spot where her body had just been. Her weight. Her warmth. Her skin that grazed mine. Even with all the anger emanating off her, she smelled like sadness. Fresh, damp grief.Fuck.Rico said it. In that damn corridor with his fists almost in my face.“She still has hope in you.”That line has been playing in my mind like an off-key violin. Like a cruel joke I don’t know how to laugh at. Hope in me? After everything? After what I said? What I’ve done? Even after calling her a dying barren woman just a few minutes ago?I bury my face in both palms and try to breathe.When last did anyone have hope in me?God.I blink hard.And then I remember.#•#I was twelve.Was skinny as heck, always wearing my Tim John's gl
The Fathers of My Child? CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
#Dorothy’s POV#When the car slows to a stop in front of the villa, I don’t even wait for Rico to open the door before pushing it gently and getting out. I can feel him watching me. He wants to help me out, to support my body like he’s been doing since we left the clinic, but I raise a hand to stop him.“I’m fine,” I mumble.He doesn’t move or speak. He just stands there with his hands hidden in his pockets like he’s holding back everything. I don't care.Two of the maids rush over once we reach the steps. Rico quietly tells them to help me upstairs and they nod. Their hands are steady and kind, but mine shake as I lean on them, every step a drag, every breath a reminder of the emptiness beneath my ribs. A space where something once lived. Or tried to.We pass the stairs.My eyes flick upward, out of habit, almost searching for something. For someone.“Where is he?” I ask the maids before I can stop myself.“Mr. Joel?” one of them answers timidly. “He’s in his study. He came in this m
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