His Princess, Not His Blood
The drive to the restaurant was quiet, the city lights blurring past us like ghosts of memory.
When we arrived, the scent of roses and the soft hum of piano music wrapped around me. It was one of my favorite places a hotel I’d visited with my parents before the accident.
Every corner whispered their laughter, their love, their absence.
He pulled out a chair for me, just as he always did. “So,” he began, his tone lighter now, “what’s your plan for Christmas vacation, Princess?”
I twirled my fork slowly, pretending to think. “I want to go to Paris , Daddy for Christmas and my…” I let the words hang, glancing up at him through my lashes, waiting to see if he would remember.
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