Chapter 165

Chapter 165
Nydia's POV
I let out a cold laugh. "And how exactly do you plan to make it up to me? Money?"
Frank's expression shifted instantly—caught, uncomfortable.
"Look at the two of you." I didn't bother softening it. "You're flat broke. So what's the plan? You show up here with your apologies and nothing to back them up?" I let the words land with full force. "I seem to remember that when you wanted to make things up to Olive, you didn't just say sorry. You handed her cash. You bought her a house."
Frank's jaw tightened. "That's enough, Nydia. You know we're bankrupt. Stop humiliating us."
"We know we were wrong." Eileen's crying grew heavier, her voice breaking between sobs. "Why do you have to keep dragging up the past?"
The hiccupping, on-and-off weeping was grating on every last nerve I had. "What do you actually want?" I cut through it. "Just say it. My time is worth something, even if yours isn't."
Frank straightened, as though he had every right in the world. "We've lost everything. No house, nowhere to go. Have a room made up—we're moving in with you."
"No."
His eyes went wide. "We are your parents. Are you seriously going to stand there and watch us die?"
"You did the same to me."
"We've told you we were wrong—"
"And saying it makes it disappear?" I turned to the guard and waved my hand. "Throw them out. If they come back, don't bother telling me—just run them off."
Frank's voice cracked into a shout. "Nydia! Don't you dare! You heartless, ungrateful—"
"Slap him."
The guard didn't hesitate. Two sharp strikes landed across Frank's face in quick succession.
Frank only got louder. Without my order to stop, the guard didn't stop either.
The room filled with the clean, crisp sound of impact—and then, gradually, Frank's curses dissolved into something less composed. By the time I raised my hand, he was too busy managing the pain to manage his mouth.
The guard stepped back.
Frank crumpled to the floor. Eileen rushed to him, sobbing as she tried to pull him upright.
I looked at them there—disheveled, defeated—and felt absolutely nothing.
"Don't come back," I said. "I'm not giving you money."
Eileen choked on a breath. "Why? Nydia, please—we haven't eaten in days. We're barely surviving. Just a little. Please."
"That's not my problem." My voice was flat. "You spent years treating Olive like she was your real daughter. You gave her everything. Go find her."
Eileen shook her head, tears streaming. "She's the reason we're like this. She'd sooner watch us starve. Nydia, you were always the kind one—we know we were wrong, we do. And now that Vincent is gone, we could all be together. Start over. Like a family."
"Vincent is not gone." The words came out sharp, almost involuntary. "Don't say that. He's not dead."
Eileen looked at me—that particular look, soft and sad and unbearable, the kind people give you when they think you've lost your grip on reality. "Nydia. Sweetheart. It's been months. If he were alive, he would have found you by now. You have to accept what happened. In this whole world, the only people who are truly yours—who will always be yours—are me and your father. Let go of the past. Come back to us."
"I said he's not dead." My tone left no room for argument. "And don't you dare keep saying it like a curse."
Eileen flinched but held her ground, pressing her lips together. Then, quieter: "Nydia. Even a little. Can't you give us anything?"
I turned my back to her.
The guards read it without being told. They moved in, each one taking hold of an arm, and walked my parents toward the door.
Eileen's voice chased me down the hall. "Nydia, please—we'll starve—you'd really let your own parents starve—"
I didn't move.
I was thinking about being seventeen, sitting in a dorm room with an empty account, wondering what I'd done wrong. Wondering how they could just—cut me off like that. Like it cost them nothing.
They had let themselves do that.
So had I.
Eileen's voice faded. Then disappeared.
One of the guards returned and confirmed it—both of them were gone, and the staff had been briefed.
"You have my word, Mrs. Nydia. They won't get past the gate."
I nodded. But the guard still hadn't moved.
"Something else?"
"Yes, ma'am." He hesitated. "Mr. Gordon is also outside. He's asking to see you."
A short, humorless sound escaped me.
There was a time when I would have given anything for any one of them to look at me the way I deserved to be looked at. I'd spent years waiting for a fraction of the attention they handed out so freely to everyone else.
Now I didn't need a single thing from any of them—and here they came, one after another, with their feelings suddenly urgent.
"Tell him to leave," I said. "And don't bring his name to me again."
The guard nodded and was gone.
The house went quiet.
Vincent. The thought settled like it always did—somewhere deep and constant, impossible to shake. Where are you? If you're out there—if you're alive—why haven't I heard from you?
Why haven't you come back?
---
Gordon's POV
Ever since I'd confirmed the body in that cellar wasn't Nydia's, I'd been searching.
Every lead I followed dissolved into nothing. Every source I trusted turned out to know less than I did. Day after day, I came up empty—and the frustration had settled into something heavier, something I didn't have a name for.
Sometimes, in the early hours when I couldn't sleep, the thought would surface: What if she really is dead?
Every single time, it hit like a physical shock—like stepping off a curb in the dark. My whole body rejected it.
She couldn't be dead. I hadn't apologized yet. I hadn't fixed what I'd broken. I hadn't given her back even a fraction of what she'd deserved from me, and she couldn't just be gone before any of that happened.
So I kept looking.
I'd assumed the search would stretch on for months, maybe longer. Then—completely without warning—I heard she was back.
I was still out on the water, retracing the route from the night of the incident, when the call came. I didn't let myself believe it. I didn't let myself feel it. I just moved—got off the boat, got in the car, drove.
By the time I reached the estate, my hands wouldn't stay still.
Then I saw them: Eileen and Frank, coming through the front gate.
They must have heard the same thing I did—Nydia was alive. Of course they'd come.
But something was wrong. They looked—destroyed was the only word for it. Eileen was crying openly, Frank's face slack and unsteady.
My stomach dropped.
Was it a false report? Was she not actually here?
My legs barely carried me forward as I moved to intercept them. "What happened? I heard Nydia was back—did you see her? Did you actually see her?"
Eileen gave a small, watery nod through her tears.
She was alive. She was here. Then why—
"Is she okay?" I pressed, my voice climbing. "Just tell me—is she alive? Is she all right?"
Eileen started to answer.
Frank cut her off.
"A hundred thousand dollars," he said, "and we'll tell you everything."
I stared at him.
"Are you serious right now?" The words came out before I could stop them. "That's your move? You'd hold that over me? What is wrong with you?"