Chapter 24

Kayna's POV

Three days after that unsettling, cryptic call, life in Boston had started to feel like it was balancing on a delicate thread.

My mom was stronger now, stronger than she had been in weeks. The doctors said she could be discharged soon, maybe even by the weekend if she kept improving. She had color in her cheeks again, and when she smiled at me that morning over her hospital tray, she looked almost like the woman I grew up with—warm, sharp-witted, and stubborn in all the best ways.

I wanted to breathe easier. To convince myself that the worst had passed. But the weight of that call wouldn’t leave me. She knows about the letters. Those words had burrowed into my chest like splinters I couldn’t dig out.

So, instead of feeling relieved, I was restless. My mind split into two competing halves: the daughter who wanted to tuck her mom into bed and pretend the world wasn’t dangerous, and the woman who needed answers about the past, about her father, about why someone out there thought I was connected to secrets buried too long.

That night, I promised myself, I would search the house.

But fate had other plans for my afternoon.

The hospital room was quiet after lunch, the blinds filtering soft winter light, when my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen absentmindedly, then froze.

Damian Marshall.

My pulse skipped, then pounded. He hadn’t called me since I came to Boston. He’d given me the distance I needed, and part of me had been grateful… but another part of me had noticed the silence, missed the sound of his voice more than I wanted to admit.

I swallowed, thumb trembling as I accepted. “Hello?”

There was a pause, heavy, like he had to gather himself before speaking. Then his voice came through, low and warm.

“Kayna.”

Just my name. But the way he said it made my chest tighten.

“Mr. Marshall,” I said quickly, defaulting to the safety of formality.

“Damian,” he corrected softly. “At least… when it’s just the two of us.”

I curled tighter into my chair, stealing a glance at my mom, who was dozing peacefully. “Okay… Damian.”

A quiet hum, almost like approval, came from the other end. Then: “How’s your mother?”

The question startled me—not because he asked, but because of the way he asked it. Not clipped, not perfunctory. Concern laced every syllable.

“She’s improving,” I said. “The doctors think she can be discharged in a couple of days.”

“That’s good,” he said, and something in his tone softened. “You sounded… worried, when you left. I’ve been thinking about it.”

Heat prickled behind my eyes. The idea of him thinking about me when his world was full of boardrooms, contracts, and endless power plays—it undid me in ways I couldn’t explain.

“I didn’t mean to disrupt anything back in New York,” I murmured.

“You didn’t,” he said firmly. Then, after a beat: “Things have been… quieter without you here.”

My breath caught. It was a simple sentence, but it spoke volumes. In his world, quiet wasn’t necessarily good.

I tried for levity. “Well, maybe that means you’ve finally had time to catch up on sleep.”

His chuckle was low, rumbling. “Sleep isn’t the same thing as rest.” A pause. “I don’t rest easily, Kayna.”

Something in the way he said it tugged at me, like he was offering a piece of himself he didn’t give to anyone else. I chewed my lip, my heart racing.

Before I could think better of it, I asked, “What helps you rest? At all?”

Silence stretched, and I thought he might avoid the question. Then he said, “Moments like this. When the noise fades. When I can hear someone’s voice and forget the rest of the world exists.”

I froze. My hand gripped the phone tighter, because if I let go, I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t fall apart.

“Damian…”

He inhaled slowly, like he’d said too much, and his voice steadied when he spoke again. “And what about you? How are you? Don’t tell me the generic response. Tell me about how you’re really doing.”

No one ever asked me that. The simple question cracked something inside me.

“I’m… managing,” I whispered. “It’s been hard, but I… I’ll be okay.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he said quietly. “You’ve already proved you’re stronger than most.”

Tears stung my eyes. I pressed my palm against my chest, trying to steady the ache his words left.

“You don’t have to say that,” I murmured.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replied, his tone sharper now. “Remember that.”

The room seemed smaller, the air charged.

“I should—” I started, but he cut me off.

“I’ll let you go soon,” he said. “But… Kayna?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t carry all of this alone.”

My throat tightened. “I don’t know how not to.”

“Then let me help,” he said softly.

I had no words. None. Only the wild thrum of my heart, and the sound of his breathing on the other end, steady and grounding.

We lingered like that, suspended in a fragile, electric silence, before the line finally clicked off.

When I lowered the phone, I realized I was smiling through tears. That one call, those few words—it had been more intimate than anything I’d let myself feel in years.

……..

After making sure Mom was settled for the night and Mateo had promised to stay with her until morning, I headed back to our house. The drive through the quiet Boston streets left me hollow with nerves. The call with Damian had filled me with a warmth I wasn’t ready to name. His voice clung to me like a second skin but beneath it, the reminder pulsed—my father. The letters. The unanswered questions.

The two parts of my life clashed violently—one tugging me toward warmth, the other toward shadows I couldn’t ignore.

When I unlocked the door and stepped into the dim stillness of our home, it felt like stepping into a past I wasn’t sure I wanted to face. Every picture frame on the wall, every scratch on the wood floors seemed to whisper secrets.

It felt like entering a different world. One full of dust and memories.

I didn’t waste time. I switched on the lamp and the search began.

I started in my mother’s desk, pulling open drawers and sifting through old files. Nothing. Then the closet, the nightstand, even the kitchen cabinets. Bills. Faded photos. Nothing about my father except clippings of his trial, yellowed with age.

Frustration burned in me as I pressed a hand to my forehead. Was I imagining it all?

Then I remembered the attic.

Dragging out the step stool, I climbed up into the stale, dusty air. Cardboard boxes lined the walls, neatly labeled: Christmas. Kayna’s School Projects. Winter Clothes.

And then one with no label at all.

My pulse spiked.

Kneeling, I tugged it closer, the cardboard groaning under my grip. With trembling fingers, I lifted the lid.

Inside were stacks of envelopes. Some typed, others scrawled in my father’s handwriting. All of them old, edges brittle, ink fading.

Letters.

My heart pounded as I lifted the first one, unfolding it slowly…

The attic suddenly felt suffocating, the shadows pressing closer.