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That landed.
Because it was true.
He had loved my loyalty, my competence, my ability to make his life beautiful. He had loved the version of himself reflected in my devotion.
But me?
The real me?
The woman who doubted, noticed, questioned, aged, wanted, grieved, needed?
He had punished her until she almost disappeared.
His gaze dropped to the laptop.
“What is that?”
“Something your father left me.”
Every drop of color left his face.
“My father is dead.”
“Is he?”
For the first time all night, Grant looked young.
Not innocent.
Just young.
A boy caught stealing from a room he thought belonged to him.
“What did you find?” he whispered.
“Enough.”
He took a step toward me. “Vanessa, whatever he left, you don’t understand. My father was paranoid. He was sick. He hated losing control.”
“And you are his son.”
His jaw clenched.
Then his voice softened.
The old softness.
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