# Chapter 166

# Chapter 166
Kira's POV

I paused at the entrance to the private garden, my heart doing this weird stutter-step thing in my chest. Dad was sitting there in his wheelchair, bathed in morning sunlight that made his silver-streaked hair gleam. He looked older than before the coma, more lines around his eyes, his shoulders not quite as straight as I remembered. But he was awake. He was here.

"You can do this," I whispered to myself, taking a deep breath before walking forward on the stone path.

The garden was stunning—flowering shrubs arranged in careful patterns, a small fountain bubbling in the center. Dad had always loved this space. According to Marcus, restoring the garden had been one of his first requests after regaining consciousness.

Dad turned at the sound of my footsteps, a slight smile warming his face. "You came," he said simply.

"Of course I did." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. This was our first real private conversation since everything happened—since the trial, since Ethan's judgment, since... well, everything.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, settling into the wrought iron chair beside his wheelchair.

"Better each day." His voice was quieter than before, but clear. "The doctors are pleased with my progress. Though I suspect they're keeping some of their concerns from me." He smiled wryly.

I nodded, noticing how his hands rested on the armrests—steadier than yesterday, but still with a slight tremor. The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with all the things we hadn't yet said.

"The trial went well?" he finally asked, breaking the quiet.

"Yes." I picked at a loose thread on my jeans. "Ethan received the sentence we expected—memory wipe and permanent exile from werewolf society."

Dad nodded slowly. "A fitting punishment, considering what he did. It's merciful, actually."

"Merciful?" I couldn't keep the surprise from my voice.

"He threatened our entire way of life, Kira. In the old days, the punishment would have been death." His eyes darkened briefly. "This way, he lives, just... without knowing who he truly is."

I shivered slightly, thinking about how easily it could have been any of us with our memories wiped, our identities erased.

"Dominic has been keeping me updated on everything," Dad said, surprising me. "He's been quite thorough in his reports."

My stomach clenched. "Everything?"

Dad's eyes met mine. "Yes. About you and Rocco. About what he did, and why."

Oh god. My heart hammered against my ribs. "Dad, I—"

"You don't need to explain," he interrupted gently. "I understand why you left him. I would have advised the same, had I been able."

I stared at my hands, unsure what to say. How much did he know about Rocco's revenge plan? About how I'd been used as a pawn?

"I also know about his original intentions toward our family," Dad continued, his voice softer now. "About his desire for revenge."

"You do?" My head snapped up.

Dad nodded. "It wasn't hard to piece together, once I started remembering certain events from the past." He sighed, looking out at the garden. "I've made many mistakes, Kira. Some I'm only now beginning to fully understand."

A bee buzzed past us, landing on a nearby lavender bush. I watched it, giving myself time to process his words.

"You've grown so much," he said, surprising me again. "When I remember the young woman you were before all this..." He shook his head slightly. "You've become remarkable, Kira. Taking what was done to you and turning it into strength. Saving not just yourself, but others."

"I didn't do it alone," I murmured, embarrassed by his praise.

"No one does anything truly important alone," he agreed. "But that doesn't diminish what you've accomplished."

His gaze drifted toward the tree line at the edge of the garden. I followed it and saw Rocco standing there, talking with Andy. They were keeping their distance, giving us privacy, but clearly waiting nearby.

"I handled things poorly with your mother," Dad said suddenly, his voice dropping lower. "After we separated."

The abrupt change of subject caught me off guard. "What do you mean?"

He sighed, a deep sound filled with regret. "When Vanessa left... I was hurt. Angry. Prideful." His fingers tightened on the wheelchair's armrest. "I should have fought harder to keep you both in my life."

"You wanted custody?" The question burst from me before I could stop it.

"Of course I did." He looked genuinely surprised. "You were my daughter. My little girl."

"But she only took Kim," I said, confusion making my voice sharp. "I stayed with you."

Dad's expression softened. "Because you chose to, Kira. Do you remember? You were young, but old enough to have a say. Your mother wanted both of you, but you refused to leave."

Fragments of memory flickered through my mind—raised voices, suitcases in the hallway, Kim crying. Me, standing at the top of the stairs, shouting that I wouldn't go.

"I remember some of it," I admitted. "Not everything."

"You were always stubborn," he said, with a hint of pride. "Even at eight years old, you knew your own mind."

We sat in silence for a moment, letting the weight of those old memories settle.

"Our family needs to be rebuilt," Dad said finally. "The Silverstone name still means something, but we've lost ground in the past years. I'd like you to be part of that rebuilding, Kira."

I looked at him, surprised. "You want me involved in the family business?"

"Not just the business. Everything." His eyes were serious. "You've proven yourself a leader during this crisis. Your medical knowledge, your strategic thinking—these are assets our family needs."

I hesitated, feeling overwhelmed by the responsibility. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."

"You are." His certainty was unwavering. "More than ready."

His gaze drifted again to where Rocco and Andy stood. "But I also understand you have personal decisions to make. Important ones."

I followed his gaze, my stomach tightening at the sight of the two men. Andy noticed us looking and raised a hand in greeting. Rocco remained still, his expression unreadable at this distance.

"They represent different paths," Dad said quietly. "Rocco is power, tradition, our world as it has always been. The other young man—"

"Andy," I supplied.

"Andy," Dad nodded. "He represents innovation, change, perhaps a new way forward." He turned back to me. "Both have merit. Both have risks."

"How do you know all this? You've barely met Andy."

Dad smiled slightly. "I've been conscious longer than you think. And I observe. It's a habit I haven't lost."

I sat back in my chair, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me. Family legacy. Personal choices. The future.

"I'm proud of you, Kira," Dad said, his voice gentle but firm. "The choices you've made, the strength you've shown. Whatever you decide now, I understand. And I support you."

I swallowed hard, unprepared for the rush of emotion his words triggered. "Thank you," I managed to say, my voice thick.

We sat together in the garden as the morning sun climbed higher, warming the stones beneath our feet. No more words were needed. For the first time in years—maybe ever—I felt my father truly saw me. Not as a child to be protected. Not as a responsibility. But as myself.

And somehow, that made the difficult choices ahead seem just a little less impossible.