All Chapters of The Fathers of My Child?: Chapter 191 - Chapter 200

#Dorothy’s POV#The sun is heavy this afternoon, sinking low but still sharp. The air is sticky warm, but the breeze carries a hint of late summer sweetness from the hibiscus shrubs. I’m standing here with two of the maids, watching them fuss over the sprinklers, tugging hoses and trimming the edges of the hedges with their small shears. My hands are idle, but I keep pretending to rearrange the potted orchids on the steps just so I look like I belong in the scene. I don’t want to go back inside, because it’s too quiet in there, and I already know that once I’m alone, my head will start spinning again about him.Joel.I haven’t seen him in four days. Not a glimpse or even his voice on the other end of the line. Anytime I call, he answers with a text message instead. I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’ll be home tonight. But every night, the door stays shut, the bed cold, and it feels like I’m being punished without him ever saying the words.And I keep wondering if it’s because of me.Because I

#Dorothy’s POV#The morning air carries that strange salt and sweetness, the kind of smell that clings to you if you’ve been near the ocean long enough. I hear it before I see it; waves dragging themselves over the sand, pulling back again like they’re too shy to stay. I blink awake in this cottage, still somewhere between sleep and that lightheaded float I’ve been living in since yesterday. I can’t believe it’s real. Joel and I… we’re actually doing this today. The second time, but also the first time, the real one. No pretense, no lawyers, no screaming relatives in the background. Just us, barefoot in the sand, promising again, but this time without the lies, without the walls we kept around ourselves.The staff are back in the villa in Manhattan, so this little cottage feels almost ghostly quiet. Except it isn’t. Because the maids who came back with us… they’re practically bouncing, carrying trays of fruits and sweet rolls like it’s Christmas morning. One of them keeps fussing with

#Dorothy’s POV#The morning light filters into the sitting room, the way it always does here by the ocean. The curtains sway a little because Joel left the window cracked last night to let the sea breeze through, and the air smells of salt, wood polish, and fresh flowers in the vase on the coffee table. I sit there on the edge of the couch, my hands restless in my lap, my knees bouncing slightly, unable to keep still. I feel like my body is betraying me again, and yet my mind is working double time, replaying every single detail of what happened yesterday, what’s been happening lately, how everything has gotten to this insane point in my life.Joel is there, of course. He’s in one of his plain white shirts, the collar open, sleeves rolled up, and his hair is slightly damp from his morning shower. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I woke up with nausea again. He hasn’t stopped watching me as though the minute he looks away, I’ll collapse, I’ll vanish, I’ll slip into that dark tunne

#Dorothy’s POV#The moment I walk into the conference lounge of the publishing house, it feels like my body is floating and heavy at the same time. Floating because the last few days have felt like I’ve been suspended in something I can’t fully name, feeling relief, exhaustion and disbelief that I’m still standing after everything that’s happened. Heavy because every muscle in me still aches from carrying all the secrets and betrayals, and even though the papers are signed and the lawyers are out of the way, my heart hasn’t quite caught up with what “resolved” is supposed to feel like.I’m perched on the edge of one of the couches in the staff lounge, legs crossed, tapping my fingers restlessly on my phone screen. I’ve been trying to distract myself with work, or at least with busywork—re-reading the itinerary for the launch tour, scrolling through all the notes the marketing team emailed me this morning—but my brain keeps sliding off the words. There’s something too still in me, like

#Dorothy’s POV# #Two Years Later#The sea is loud tonight, louder than usual. Waves keep rolling and breaking against the sand in heavy rhythm. The air smells like salt and driftwood, and I can taste the brine when I lick my lips. The wind keeps sweeping my hair across my face, tickling, reminding me I’m here, I’m alive. Two years. It feels like both forever and yesterday.Cass sits on a chair set up on the beach, barefoot, her hair pinned loosely but already fighting to come free. She’s holding a folded piece of paper in her hands, her voice steady but trembling at the edges. Everyone from the retreat is gathered around her. Survivors, writers, friends, the odd stranger who wandered in and never left. Joel’s somewhere behind me with the twins, but my eyes stay fixed on Cass. She clears her throat and looks at me, and for the briefest second she’s just my best friend, the same Cass who used to chat with me overnight and vent about Turkish male drama leads. But tonight she’s more than