Chapter 116

Chapter 116
Eloise

I didn’t sleep.

I lay in bed with my eyes wide open, staring at the faint shadows across the ceiling, listening to the steady, soft breaths of Max as he slept against me. Every time I closed my eyes, the day returned in sharp flashes—Mike’s voice, the crackle of police radios, Damon’s warning that settled like a stone in my chest.

I wanted to cry myself to sleep. God, I wanted to just let it all out, bury my face in the pillow and sob until there was nothing left inside me. But Max was curled in my arms, his tiny body pressed close, his hair brushing my chin. He needed me to be steady more than I needed the relief of tears. So, I stayed still. I kept my arms tight around him, stroking his back every so often, humming under my breath when he shifted.

He was my priority. No matter how broken I felt, Max had to feel safe.

By the time the first streaks of morning light filtered through the curtains, my head throbbed from the weight of unshed tears. My eyes burned, but I hadn’t closed them once.

The knock came just as I was coaxing Max into sitting upright, his hair a tangle of wild curls, his eyelids heavy with sleep. A soft, careful knock, not the harsh kind, but the type that asked permission.

I already knew who it was, I had texted her late last night after Damon’s words had sunk their claws into me.

When I opened the door, Ava stood there, her face pale, eyes rimmed red, as if she’d cried for me before even stepping into the house. She didn’t wait for words. She dropped her bag, crossed the space between us, and wrapped me up in her arms so tightly I almost sagged from the sudden release of holding myself together.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered against my ear, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

Her apology was a knife and a balm all at once. My throat ached, but I shook my head quickly, pressing my lips together to keep the swell of emotion from escaping.

“Maybe this is just… my fate,” I whispered back, voice dry, and brittle. “It’s nobody’s fault.”

She pulled back far enough to search my face, her hands cupping my cheeks as if I was fragile glass. “Don’t say that,” she pleaded. “You don’t deserve this. Eloise, don’t you dare believe this is what you deserve.”

I didn’t answer. Because a part of me wasn’t sure. A part of me wondered if the years of silence, of turning away when I should have spoken, of swallowing every insult, every bruise to my dignity, maybe this was all the universe cashing in what it was always owed.

Halfway through breakfast—toast I forced myself to eat, scrambled eggs Max picked at with the distracted energy of a child who sensed the heaviness in the room, my phone began to ring.

For one dizzy second, my heart stopped. The name on the screen could have been Mike’s. I was half-expecting it, dreading it, terrified of what he might say.

But it wasn’t Mike. It was my father.

The phone kept buzzing, again and again, relentless. I stared at it on the table, frozen. Ava gave me a questioning look, eyebrows raised.

“You’re not going to answer?” she asked softly.

I hesitated. Then I reached for it. My hand felt like lead.

“Hello?” My voice cracked, raw from the night.

On the other end, a voice so low, trembling. I barely recognized it, it wasn’t my father’s voice but one of the security, Elias. This was a broken man’s voice.

“Eloise,” he rasped. “It’s… it’s your father. He fell. He—he fell down the stairs. His waist—he’s—”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

Not because I loved him so much. Not because I feared losing him. But because, no matter what had been between us, the hatred, the cruelty, the cold dismissal, he was still my father. Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood.

Duty. Obligation. That invisible thread yanked at me, heavy and suffocating.

“I’ll come,” I whispered.

By the time I arrived at the house, the place was in disarray. The front door stood half-open, as if someone had rushed through it. The smell of dust and stale cologne hit me the moment I stepped inside.

He was on the floor at the bottom of the staircase, groaning, his face twisted in pain. His hand clutched at his hip, sweat soaking his shirt.

“Dad,” I breathed, kneeling beside him, my voice unsure, clumsy, as if the word itself tasted foreign on my tongue. “What happened?”

He grimaced, teeth gritted. “I… slipped,” he said, breathless. “Damn steps… I told the maid to fix the carpet. Never listens.”

I swallowed the sharp reply that wanted to rise. This wasn’t the time.

“I’ve called the paramedics,” I said instead, steadying my voice. “They’re on their way.”

He didn’t thank me. He just nodded, his jaw tight as another wave of pain hit him.

I stayed crouched there, listening to the shallow, ragged sounds of his breathing, my fingers digging into the rug to keep myself anchored.

While waiting, my gaze wandered, anywhere but his twisted face. That was when I noticed it.

The study door was ajar. A thin line of light spilled out from it, catching on the polished floorboards. I don’t know why my eyes strayed there, why my body leaned just enough to see past the crack.

And that was when I saw it. The safe. A heavy, steel beast of a thing, usually locked tight, with an air of finality that dared anyone to even think of opening it. But now… its lock was half-broken, hanging at an odd angle.

As if someone had forced it. Or tried. My stomach tightened.

That safe held years of things, contracts, sealed documents, photographs, and, most importantly, the old CCTV archives from before Dad had begun remodeling everything, when the house still bore its original bones.

Why was it broken now?

I glanced back at my father, then at the door again. The paramedics would be here soon.

But that lock—