Chapter 68
Chapter 68
Chapter 68: Her Father’s Daughter
Elizabeth
\---
I was standing by the loft's window when my phone rang.
At first, I didn’t recognize the number. I just stared at it, my thumb poised over the screen. Yet, something in my gut told me who it was. I answered anyway.
“Hello?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
There was a brief silence before I heard a familiar voice for the first time in months.
“Eliza.”
Just that one word. Gentle and measured, as if he feared I might hang up before he could say anything else.
I didn’t respond.
He cleared his throat. “It’s your dad.”
“I know.”
Another pause followed. I could hear something humming in the background, maybe the sound of a car engine or the AC in his office.
“I… I saw the video,” he said softly. “I saw everything.”
“Of course you did,” I replied. “Everyone else did too.”
“I didn’t know,” he said, and I felt a knot form in my stomach. “About the legal threats. About what your mother tried to do with the baby and the lawyers… That wasn’t me, Eliza. I promise, I wasn’t involved.”
I shut my eyes. The familiar ache washed over me, as if it had been waiting just beneath the surface.
“You always say that,” I murmured. “Every time she crosses a line, it’s the same story. You didn’t know. You weren’t part of it. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Because you stay. You stay quiet.”
He didn't respond right away.
“I tried to protect you,” he said quietly.
I let out a dry laugh. “No, you didn’t.”
“Eliza—”
“You let her shame me. You sat by while she tossed me aside like I was just an inconvenience. You let her humiliate me after the wedding, and you said nothing. You stood there while she belittled me in front of reporters, in front of Jackson. And then you looked me in the eye, expecting me to understand.”
“That’s not how it was—”
“No,” I interrupted. “That’s exactly how it was. You just didn’t have to experience it.”
Then, something I never intended to voice slipped out.
“You were there, Dad, when she hit me. And then you kicked me out, as if I were the one at fault.”
He fell silent. Too silent.
“I’m your daughter,” I whispered. “Your real and only daughter. I don’t deserve this treatment simply because I chose to be plain instead of sophisticated. I didn’t follow her rules, and that doesn’t make me a failure. It makes me free.”
Silence settled again, and then he sighed, a sound heavy with weariness.
“I miss you,” he said. “I miss my little girl.”
My eyes stung, but I refused to cry. Not for him.
“You lost her a long time ago,” I replied. “And you didn’t even notice.”
“Eliza…”
“I’m not coming back,” I said softly. “Not as things were before. I won’t pretend she didn’t hurt me. Or that you didn’t let it happen.”
“She’s your mother—”
“No, she’s your wife. And you made your choice long ago.”
He didn’t say anything. For a moment, I thought maybe the call had dropped. But then he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m proud of you, you know. For standing up for yourself. For not letting this ruin you.”
I felt detached, almost as if I were watching myself from the outside. Those words should have meant something to me; they had once been all I desired.
But now?
They felt far too late.
I pulled the phone slightly away from my ear to see his name on the screen. Dad. Just that.
I pressed the red button, ending the call. I stood there for what felt like forever, staring at the call log.
Then I opened his contact. My thumb hovered over the screen.
And I deleted it.
Just like that, the name vanished from my phone.
A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escaped me, and it felt as if a weight had finally lifted off my shoulders.
I sank down to the floor, right there in the center of the loft. No furniture was in sight, just open air, dust particles dancing in the sunlight. I rested my head against the wall and stared up at the ceiling.
Earlier, Jackson had texted to check in on me, again. He was gradually growing accustomed to this quieter version of me, the one who didn’t feel the need to fill silence with chatter just to maintain control.
I picked up my phone and responded to him.
Me: I deleted my dad’s number.
Jackson: Proud of you.
A small, shaky smile spread across my face.
Just ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. I thought it might be Jackson, but when I opened it, I found Grace standing there.
“I brought food,” she said, holding up a brown paper bag. “And you haven’t eaten since this morning. Your sister instincts are kicking in.”
I stepped aside to let her in. “You really don’t have to keep checking in on me like I’m about to break apart.”
“I know. But I enjoy having an excuse to escape my own house.”
We settled on the floor, legs crossed, munching on fries from the bag. Grace was scrolling through her phone.
“People are still talking about that post,” she said. “Some think you’re brave, while others are just being, well… internet trolls.”
“I’ve stopped reading the comments,” I replied.
“Smart choice.”
I leaned my head against her shoulder.
“I talked to Dad today,” I admitted.
Grace stiffened. “Oh?”
“He claims it was all Mom’s doing; that he had no idea about the legal threats and that he was trying to protect me.”
She was silent for a moment. Then asked, “Do you believe him?”
“No.”
She nodded slowly. “Good.”
I closed my eyes for a brief second. “I deleted his number.”
Grace reached over and squeezed my hand gently. “Good.”
We stayed in that comfortable silence for a while, just breathing.
Eventually, she got up and wiped her hands on a napkin.
“I should head out before Mom calls the cops on me,” she said lightheartedly.
I walked her to the door.
“You’re not alone,” she said before leaving. “Even if it feels that way sometimes.”
“I know.”
After she left, I strolled slowly around the loft, just as I had done the first time. My fingers glided along the rough brick wall. I headed toward the back, envisioning a small table near the window, maybe an easel against the far wall. The image was so vivid in my mind.
I ran my hand over my stomach.
“You’re going to be okay,” I whispered. “I promise.”
The baby kicked softly, and a smile appeared on my face.
Later that evening, when I arrived home, Jackson was in the kitchen. He looked up, his eyes warm.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I replied, dropping my bag on the counter.
He wiped his hands on a towel. “Want some dinner?”
“Not just yet.”
I moved closer, wrapping my arms around him and resting my cheek against his chest.
His arms encircled me slowly and carefully.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
“I just needed a hug.”
We held each other for what felt like ages.
Finally, I pulled back to look up at him.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?” he asked.
“For not pushing me. For letting me come to you. For today.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I want to start fixing up the loft,” I said. “Little by little. Maybe paint the walls and bring in a few things.”
His smile grew wider. “Do you want me to help?”
“Yes.”
And for the first time in a long while, I genuinely meant it.