Chapter 83 My Father
Her breath caught in her throat.
The café noise faded into a dull hum. The chatter, the clink of spoons, the hiss of the espresso machine—everything blurred into the background as she stared at the screen.
Uncle Tom.
Her fingers went numb.
Richelle noticed immediately. “Jasmine?” she asked. “What is it?”
The phone stopped vibrating. The call ended.
Jasmine blinked, as if waking from a trance. Slowly, she picked up the phone with shaking hands.
“I—” she swallowed. “It’s my uncle.”
Richelle frowned. “The one who was looking for… him?”
Jasmine nodded.
Her heart was racing now, pounding so hard she felt it in her ears. She stared at the missed call, dread pooling in her stomach. A part of her wanted to pretend she hadn’t seen it.
To shove the phone back into her pocket and stay in this café, with coffee and sunlight and Richelle’s presence.
But the screen lit up again.
Uncle Tom calling…
Her throat tightened.
“I have to take this,” she whispered.
She stood so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor. One of the guards immediately rose from his seat.
“I’ll go with her,” he said.
Richelle lifted a hand. “She’s just going to the bathroom. Give her a minute of privacy.”
The guard hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, then glanced at Jasmine. She forced a small nod.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll be quick.”
Reluctantly, the guard sat back down.
Jasmine walked toward the restroom, her legs feeling strangely weak beneath her. She pushed through the door and was greeted by the sterile smell of soap and tile. The bathroom was empty, quiet except for the faint drip of a leaky faucet.
She checked the stalls.
Empty.
Locked the door behind her.
Only then did she answer.
“Uncle Thomas?"
“Hello, dear.”
His voice was older than she remembered. Worn. Tired. Her chest tightened. “How are you, Uncle?” she asked carefully. “I… I haven’t been able to contact you for months.”
“Yes, I know, my dear,” he replied gently. “Things have been complicated.”
Her fingers curled around the phone. “Did you—” Her voice faltered. She leaned her free hand against the sink for balance. “Did you find him?”
Silence.
Not the kind that came from bad reception. The kind that carried weight. Jasmine’s pulse thundered. “Uncle?”
He exhaled slowly on the other end. “I need to speak to you in person.”
Her stomach dropped. “In person?”
“I will come back to New York next week,” he said. “Then I will tell you everything.”
Her grip tightened on the sink. “Is it… is it good or bad news?”
She already knew the answer. Her body knew before her mind did. Her knees trembled.
“I am afraid it is not good news, my dear.”
The words felt like a blade sliding between her ribs. Jasmine sucked in a sharp breath. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror—wide eyes, parted lips, color draining from her face.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Her hand trembled so badly she had to press it flat against the counter. “I thought…” she swallowed. “I thought maybe… maybe you found him. Or that he couldn’t find me"
“I’m sorry, bean,” Uncle Tom said softly. “I truly am.”
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.
“Stay safe,” he added. “Please. Stay safe, bean.”
Then the line went dead.
Jasmine lowered the phone slowly.
For a long moment, she just stood there, staring at herself.
Her curls framed her face in soft spirals, but her eyes—her brown, once-bright eyes—looked haunted. Like a child caught in the shadow of something too big to fight.
Too old to run from.
Her past was coming for her.
And there was nowhere left to hide.
Her chest tightened until breathing hurt. She pressed both palms to the sink and bowed her head, trying to steady herself.
Not now, she begged silently. Please, not now.
She imagined Damien’s arms around her. His voice. His promise. But even that comfort felt fragile now, like glass that could shatter with one wrong word.
After a moment, she splashed cold water on her face and dabbed at her eyes with a paper towel. She practiced a smile in the mirror.
It looked wrong.
Crooked, too thin.
When she stepped back into the café, Richelle was already on her feet. “Jasmine?” she asked, searching her face. “What happened?”
Jasmine opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her gaze drifted back to the door again.
To the world outside.
To the future she suddenly feared.
“I…” Her voice cracked. “I want to go home"
Richelle pulled her into a hug without hesitation, wrapping her arms around her tightly. Jasmine stiffened for a second, then melted into her, gripping her shirt like a lifeline.
“He’s coming back,” Jasmine whispered. “He knows where I am.”
Richelle’s expression hardened with concern. “Who, Jas?”
Jasmine shook her head, tears finally slipping free. “My father”
~
Richelle didn’t let go of Jasmine right away.
She held her there in the middle of the café, one arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders, the other resting against her back as if she could physically shield her from whatever invisible storm had just broken loose inside her.
Jasmine’s breathing was uneven, shallow, her body trembling in small, uncontrollable waves.
“Okay,” Richelle murmured near her ear. “Okay, come on. Let’s go home.”
Jasmine nodded weakly against her shoulder.
Richelle reached for her coat and Jasmine’s bag, then guided her gently toward the door. One of the guards stood immediately, alert, already signaling to the other with a sharp glance. They moved ahead of them, clearing a path as Richelle kept an arm around Jasmine’s waist, steering her carefully as though she might collapse if left on her own.
Outside, the cold air hit Jasmine’s face and made her shiver.
The street felt louder than before—cars honking, people talking, footsteps rushing past. Every sound seemed too sharp, too close. Jasmine kept her eyes on the pavement, afraid that if she looked up, she would see him standing there.
Waiting.
Richelle tightened her grip. “Hey. You’re okay. You’re with me,” she said firmly. “Nothing is happening right now.”