Chapter 3

When the doorbell rang, I was wiping down my mother's Steinway.

Through the peephole, I saw my father.

Five years had aged him drastically. White at the temples, deep lines around his eyes. He stood awkwardly on the porch, holding a paper bag.

I opened the door.

His eyes lit up, then quickly dimmed. "Chloe. I knew you'd be here. This is the property your mother left you."

"Can I help you?" My voice carried zero inflection.

"Could I... come in and sit for a while?"

"That's not convenient."

The last flicker of hope in his eyes died, but he held out the paper bag. "Macarons from the shop on the corner. Your favorite..."

"I quit sweets. In London."

His hand froze. The bag hovered between us.

A suffocating silence stretched out.

When he spoke, his voice was dry as dust. "These past few years... have you been well in London?"

"I've been fine."

The short answer shut down any further questions.

The truth was, it had been hell.

When I first arrived in London, my wallet was stolen on the street. I worked at a coffee shop until my hands cramped, nearly passed out pulling all-nighters for business school, and hid in the bathroom to cry when my first boss made my life miserable.

But all of that was in the past.

My father pulled a Swiss bank draft from his suit pocket, his fingers trembling. "Take this money. It's—"

"Sir, I don't need it."

He choked on a sob. "Chloe, I was wrong..."

"I never should have brought Mia to the estate. I should have found a foster family for her, instead of letting her ruin our lives..."

I looked at the man who used to command Wall Street with an iron fist. Right now, with red eyes and a hunched back, he was begging for forgiveness.

I felt absolutely nothing.

Guilt that arrived five years late was entirely worthless.

His gaze dropped to how I was standing, slightly favoring my left side. He hesitated. "Your shattered leg... does it still hurt?"

The air turned to ice.

My fingers tightened around the doorframe.

"Leave." My voice was freezing.

"Chloe, I just want to compensate—"

"I said, leave."

He looked at me, his lips trembling, before his shoulders finally sagged.

The former corporate titan hunched his back and slowly descended the steps.

His footsteps faded down the street.

I shut the door hard and slid down the wood, sitting on the floor.

The pain in my right leg was sharp and clear. A scar that would never truly heal.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

I shouldn't have come back to New York. If it weren't for the estate matters that required my physical presence, I would never have set foot in this city again.