I close my eyes as rage burns in my brain, making me feel like I’m going to self-combust.
* * *
Daphne
I sit on the wood floor of my empty townhouse. My nipples ache. I took out the piercings...because why bother? I’m not Logan’s anymore.
I’m not anyone’s.
Sacrifice was supposed to bring reward. Why couldn’t he trust me? I… I love him. Why isn’t that enough? I love him so much, it’s ripping my heart out.
Maybe it was better back when I was asleep. Back when I didn’t know what it felt like to live life in color. When the world was black-and-white and I woke up and went through the motions each day and then went to sleep again and year passed upon year until I eventually moldered away and went back to the earth to become fertilizer for my beloved roses. Circle of fucking life, right? Why did I think I got to be special, but no, I’ve got to be one of the rare few with an epic love of a lifetime. That’s just a fairytale.
My cell phone rings and I answer it on autopilot. I plugged it in as soon as I got here.
“Daphne?” Rachel’s voice is half panic, half hopeful.
I hang up and stare at my phone like it’s something vile. WTF is she thinking, calling me? After what she did?
My phone buzzes. She’s sent me a text.
Rachel: Daphne, I’m sorry. I can explain.
There’s little dots that tell me she’s still typing, but I furiously type faster.
Me: You have a lot of nerve, texting me rn.
The ellipses disappear.
Me: Adam told me what you did.
And now I just feel tired.
Me: Why? What did I do to you? I thought we were friends?
Rachel: …
Me: Don’t bother explaining. I’m blocking this number.
Rachel: Wait! It’s about your dad—
I snatch up the phone and redial her. My face is wet.
“What about my dad?” I ask before she can greet me. I want no niceties from her. I steel myself for more lies.
“Oh, thank gods. Daphne, he’s really, really sick.”
“What?” The last time I talked to him… was a while ago. He sounded weak but I thought everything was fine.
“You have to go. Now. The truth is, he’s in hospice care.”
“Hospice?” I cry, scrambling to my feet. “But that’s… That’s end-of-life care. Are you just trying to fuck with me again? Why are you calling, telling me this and not his nurse?” After all that you’ve done!
“I’m not proud of the way things turned out. Look, I can explain,” her voice drops to a whisper. “Just...not now. There’s no time. Go, Daphne. If you go now, you might make it in time.”
My heart jumps to my throat.
I’m already out the door, flying down the stairs. “Taxi!” I shout. A yellow Chariot wrenches out of traffic to glide to the curb.
“Make it in time for what?” I ask Rachel, but she’s quiet as I tumble into the cab’s backseat and give directions to the driver. When I look down at my phone, she’s hung up, but a new text has come through.
Rachel: In time to say goodbye.
Ten minutes later, I’m in a show down with the stone-faced nurse blocking the entrance to my dad’s room.
“He’s sleeping,” she whispers harshly.
“It’s the middle of the day. How long has he been out?”
The nurse’s gaze flits away. I clench my fist so I don’t grab the front of her shirt and shake her until she tells me what the hell is going on.
Instead, I steel my voice. “How long?”
“This is against protocol,” the nurse says to the wall. She’s scared of something and I don’t understand. “Your father is very ill.”
“How ill?” I force myself to sound calm. “Another stroke?”
The nurse finally meets my gaze a second before dropping hers and nibbling on her lip. “Yes. Followed by acute encephalopathy.”
The scientist part of my brain scrambles to translate. My voice hitches as I ask, “How bad is it?”
“We started hospice procedures two days ago.”
“What?” I whisper-shout. Rachel was right. The realization blasts the hairs on my arm, makes them rise. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”
“We had our orders.”
“What orders? From who?” my voice jumps an octave and I take a breath trying to calm myself down. “I hired you. I’m his daughter.”
The nurse gives a little whimper, and I realize I’ve backed her into the wall. “Your fiancé,” she says desperately. “He told us you had a breakdown and were hospitalized—”
“What?” I screech. No wonder she’s looking at me like I’m an escapee from the asylum.
“We were supposed to allow you to talk to your dad but all serious communication should go to Mr. Archer.”
Adam fucking Archer. Again. Something’s rotten in New Olympus and all roads lead to my bleached blond tabloid co-star. But I don’t have time to figure this out. Hospice care means I don’t have much time left with my dad.
“I’m going in. You can’t stop me from seeing my father.” Not if he’s on his deathbed. Holy shit, how is this happening? This can’t be happening.
“I have to phone this in,” the nurse mumbles.
I grab her arm and she flinches. She thinks I’m crazy. With a deep breath, I relax my grip. “Please. I’m not asking you to break protocol, just...wait as long as you can. This is my last chance…” To say goodbye.
The nurse presses her lips together, summons her humanity, and nods. I duck past her and tiptoe into my dad’s room.
Inside it’s dark and it smells like sickness. I’ve been around hospitals enough to recognize that sour scent not even antiseptic can cut. My dad is a shrunken shell of a man. Small and frail sleeping in his bed. I creep to his side and take a seat. The only sound is the soft wheeze of my dad’s breathing.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was supposed to be getting better. Adam kept this a secret—but why?
You always sensed he was untrustworthy. I thought my instincts were broken. Turns out they were right all along.
If Rachel hadn’t called me, I would’ve missed this. Which means...I don’t know what it means.
“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I whisper. My dad’s eyes remain closed, his mouth slightly open. A sound creaks in his throat, but it’s probably involuntary. He’s probably just asleep. His index finger twitches on the coverlet.
I bow my head and take hold of his hand. It’s all I can do.
Thirty-Two
20 years ago
Daphne
“Daphne!” My mother’s voice finds me in my hiding place. “Come out from there.”
I hold my breath and hug the ground in case she doesn’t know I’m actually in the garden.
“I see you behind the forsythia. Come, sweetheart, come help me dig.”
I crawl out from under the hedge and run to my mother. She sees the mud and grass stains on my knees, but doesn’t scold. She’s in an old pair of jeans with matching stain, and her beautiful hands are covered in black dirt.
“What are we planting?” I ask after my own hands are coated in loam.
“Roses.”
“More roses?” Every other plant in this garden is a type of rose. Clipped into hedges, climbing up trellises, or blossoming in pots Mom can move in and out of our house.
Mom laughs. “Always.”
“Now we plant.” Mom takes a wet paper bag full of green sticks and starts setting them in the earth.
I wrinkle my nose and pick at a shriveled brown leaf. “They look dead.”
“They’re not dead. They’re dormant. Waiting to be planted.”
My dad walks by the open window, the phone pressed to his ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but even if I could, I wouldn’t understand it. He stands looking out at the garden, but he doesn’t seem to really see it. Doesn’t see us.
Mom and I plant another
five sticks before he hangs up. For a few blissful moments, the only sound is a low buzzing of bees moving from blossom to blossom.
“Piers, come plant with us,” my mom waves. My dad holds up a finger, and goes back to typing in another number to call.
I sit back on my haunches. “He’s always talking to someone.”
“He works hard. That’s his job, to take care of us.”
Dad starts talking again, leaving a message. The sound of his voice triggers a memory I feel deep in my bones. I grab my aching arms. “Am I going to have to go back to the hospital?”
Mom sees me shrinking into myself, and gives me a hug that leaves dirt prints on my shirt. She smells so sweet, like roses. “No, sweetie. No more hospitals. At least, not for a while.”
“How are my two girls?” Dad’s shadow falls over me. My mother turns and the sun falls full on her face. Green eyes, black hair and brows, brown skin - she’s so beautiful, my mother. My skin is more olive, a compromise between the natural tan of my mother’s heritage and my dad’s pallor, but otherwise people say I look like her.
“We’re planting roses.”
“More roses?” Dad teases. And I smile, because that’s exactly what I said. But in the next moment he frowns. “Daphne, you’re watching out for your momma, right? Make sure she’s not growing too tired—”
“That’s not her job,” Mom’s voice is soft, but she rarely cuts people off. Dad stills like she snapped at him.
I pat his leg. “It’s okay, Dad. I am watching her. I don’t want to go back to the hospital.”
Mom and Dad share a long look over my head. It ends when Dad bows his. I don’t quite know what their fight is about, but I know Mom won.
“Good girl,” Dad says to me. His voice is thick with emotion I don’t understand. He drops a kiss on my head and lowers himself down to the lawn with us. “Now, how do I plant these sticks?”
Thirty-Three
Present day
Daphne
I don’t know how long I sit beside my sleeping father.
He looks bad. Shocking. When did his skin become so translucent? How did I miss this? It’s only been a few weeks. He was so much stronger the last time I was here. Now, he looks like he’s— Like he’s—
I want to reach out and grab his hand but he looks too weak to touch. Like he’s made of dust and if I touch him he’ll disintegrate.
The nurse comes in and out a few times. Checks my dad’s vitals and shows me how to swab his lips to keep them wet. Her stance has softened towards me. Who knows what lies Adam told her about me? Which makes me wonder: what other lies has he told? There is a common denominator in a lot of the bad things that have happened: Adam Archer. But I can’t think about that right now.
“Daphne?” my dad’s wan voice comes out as the barest whisper through cracked lips. His eyes are open only the barest of slits.
“Dad,” I lean in to touch his cheek. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It feels dry and delicate like filo pastry dough. “I’m here, Dad. It’s going to be okay.”
“You look...like your mother. I thought you were her.”
Crap, now I’m crying. “I was thinking of her just now.” I brush my sleeve over my eyes and grab the cup of water. “Hey, can you drink a little bit for me?”
Everything else feels so silly and unimportant now. All the drama. All the hurt and grudges. In this moment, all I want is to go back and spend time with my dad. I wasted so much time. We both did.
“Try…” he whispers. I set the straw between his lips and coax him to take some sips. He doesn’t take much. That’s when I know: we’re counting the hours, not the days, now. Shit.
Fat tears roll down my cheeks. “I didn’t know you were this bad. I would’ve been here. Dad.”
“Busy...girl.” His eyes are open a little wider now and they are shining, a small smile curving his lips up.
“Yeah.” My laugh is pathetic. “It certainly has been a couple of days.” I filter through all that’s happened, trying to figure out what I can tell him. Hey, dad, I ended up in the tabloids again—this time with my clothes off! And I’ve lost the love of my life and my job all in one scandal. Oh, and I think Adam Archer orchestrated it all so he can steal our company.
“Um, Dad? I have to tell you… I’m not engaged.” I stare at his liver-spotted finger entwined with mine. “I told Adam I didn’t want to marry him.” There, that’s nice and simple, and without any lurid details. And I managed not to call Adam a douche canoe.
Dad makes a little sound and I rush out, “I know it’s what you wanted for me—”
He seems agitated and finally manages to bark out, “No.”
“No?” I risk raising my eyes to his. Is this what it’s finally come to, then? And he doesn’t even know the worst of it. How do I tell him his life’s work, his company is about to slip through my fingers? “I’m such a failure.” It’s barely a whisper but he must hear.
“Shhh. Not a failure. Never.” His hand traces my wrist, the veins, as if remembering when they bore IVs.
“I couldn’t save mom. I was supposed to cure her. That’s why you had me, right?” I half laugh. But we’re both crying.
“Daphne,” he mouths my name. Twin tracks of water stream from his eyes.
“Shhh.” I wipe his face and give him more water. The nurse comes in and the moment is broken. I excuse myself to give dad privacy.
I find a bathroom and commandeer a whole box of tissues. Then the floodgates open. When I head back in, Dad’s sleeping, so I take up vigil by the window and look at the flowers perched in the window box, bright and colorful in the midday sun.
I wasted so much time working for my father’s love. Why? Because you didn’t know love could be effortless. Unconditional. Not like I do now.
The nurse finds me still staring out the window.
“He’s ready for you.”
I sniffle and wipe my eyes, to hide my sadness. “This is the end, isn’t it?” I can’t believe I’m really asking that question.
She hesitates, and nods. “He’s out of pain. I did my best to make him comfortable.”
“Thank you.” I swallow hard.
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“No.” I wave the pathetic crumple of tissues in my hand. “I’m fine.” The nurse doesn’t move, so I add, “I’ll go in in a moment.”
“I called him. Mr. Archer. I didn’t tell him you were here.”
“Oh….thank you.” I don’t quite understand her determined expression, but she looks like she wants to say more.
She draws herself up. “I told him Dr. Laurel wasn’t long for this world, and it was time to notify his next of kin. He told me he’d handle it, and hung up.”
Ah. Good ole Adam, showing his true douche canoe colors. “He’s probably not going to call me.”
“That’s what I suspected. I saw the tabloids today.”
Oh no. “You did?’ I hide my wince.
“I did. And if any man did that to me, I wouldn’t be his fiancée for long.”
I blink at her declaration. “Did...what exactly?” I ask carefully.
“Forced you to have a threesome.” She looks as confused as I feel. “At least that’s what the Herald said.”
“Oh…” A threesome? Dear gods. These reporters have quite the imagination. “Well, you’re right. I’m not his fiancée any more. Gave back the ring and everything.”
She gives a satisfied nod. “Good girl.”
“I told my father the engagement’s off, but didn’t tell him why.”
She mimes locking her lips shut and bustles off.
I wilt against the window. Since when is my life a soap opera? I head back in to my dad, squeezing the back of my neck to wring out the exhaustion.
My dad is sleeping again, his lips parted.
The death rattle starts at dusk. I alternate pacing the floor at the foot of dad’s bed, and sitting by his side, watching the blanket rise and fall. Waiting for the final breath.
&nb
sp; My dad’s lips move and his eyes flutter open. “I wish…”
I rush to grab his cup of ice chips, but he refuses. He’s trying to tell me something.
I lean closer. “What, Dad? What do you wish?”
“I wish ... Logan were here.”
Oh. My. Gods.
I glance at my phone, but it’s dead. And Logan probably wouldn’t even pick up if I called.
“I had two sons, one dark, one light. Both were lost. But you…” His head rolls back, his eyes fluttering closed as his throat works soundlessly.
His lips move, his voice creaking, “Want you to...” he heaves for breath and continues, “be happy.”
My eyes burn. “Oh, Dad.”
Finally, after years—after a lifetime—of not communicating, I feel like Dad is finally telling me something true. He’s finally looking at me and seeing me. Talking to me like I’m a real person and not just his creation he can order around.
I see what I couldn’t for so long—my father is far from a perfect man. But it doesn’t mean there isn’t still love between us.
I hold the straw to his mouth again. He takes half a sip of water and chokes out. “You’re so beautiful. My rose bud.”
“No more time. Need you to—” he heaves and coughs, “forgive me.”
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
“It’s not right...what we did to him.”
Chills blast down my arms. “Dad? What did you do?”
“It’s not right,” he murmurs weakly. “Adam said…” He shakes his head and his voice trails off. I fight a scream. All my answers are here.
He clutches my hand. “Make it right.”
“How?” I cry, but his head has dropped back on the pillow and he starts whispering too softly for me to hear. I put my ear by his lips.
“Bella…”
“Belladonna?” I step back and search my dad’s face, but his eyes are closed. He never reopens them, but even unconscious, he continues to whisper one name over and over.
And it’s not his company’s. It’s my mother’s.
“Isabella…Isabella… Bella… Bella, Bella, Bella…”
Beauty and the Thorns Page 16
