~ 46 ~

~ 46 ~
LILA

It began the very next morning.
The sun streamed in through the cream-colored curtains, wrapping my room in soft light that should’ve felt peaceful. But my chest was still heavy from the night before—my father’s words echoing like a bitter song I couldn’t turn off. I hadn’t even spoken to him since I slammed his office door. And I didn’t want to. Not yet.

But life, thank God, had other plans for me.

I was in the kitchen trying to make tea when Olivia came in, her strawberry-blonde curls pulled up into a messy bun, already dressed in denim shorts and a breezy white blouse that made her look like she’d walked out of a travel magazine. She dropped a giant duffel bag on the floor with a loud thud.

“Pack a bag. We’re going on an adventure,” she said, way too chipper for 8:30 a.m.

“What?”

“No arguments. You need this. Mia and Tessa are on board. Literally, they’re in the car. We’re kidnapping you.”

I blinked, unsure if I should laugh or cry. I ended up doing a bit of both as she walked over and hugged me tightly, pressing a kiss to my temple.

By the time I was showered, dressed, and tossing random outfits into a weekend bag, the ache in my chest had dulled just a little. Maybe I needed to get out of my head. Out of the house. Out of the lingering silence my mom used to fill so easily.

We started at the coast. Olivia had mapped out a trail of small towns and hidden beaches she’d been dying to explore for a piece she was writing. The woman didn’t travel without a purpose. But it never felt like work with her—it felt like magic.

Tessa had taken the week off, a miracle in itself. She showed up in oversized sunglasses and a crossbody bag filled with snacks, contracts, and probably two phones. She always had a way of making chaos look graceful. “I’ve been prepping for a court trial all month. I deserve sunshine and overpriced cocktails.”

Mia brought her son, Liam—who was three going on thirty. That boy had more energy than a wind turbine and more charm than should be legal. He rode in the car singing off-key lullabies, occasionally shouting out dinosaur facts, and demanding Mia play Baby Shark on repeat, much to our dismay.

We stayed in cozy inns, some with floral wallpaper and creaky floors, others sleek and minimalistic. We danced barefoot on the beach at sunset, Mia chasing Liam while Liv snapped pictures for her blog. Tessa and I sat on a log one evening, our toes buried in the sand, a bottle of wine between us as we talked about everything—from work and burnout to heartbreak and the impossibility of getting over men who didn’t deserve us.

We went horseback riding one afternoon—my horse was named Cinnamon and clearly had beef with me. Liv, being the expert, rode like she was born in a Western film, and Mia screamed through most of the trail while Tessa threatened to sue the ranch if anyone broke anything.

There were spa mornings and thrift shop hunts in tiny towns. One night, we wore matching robes, did facials, and binge-watched old romcoms in our inn suite while Liam snored loudly in a corner, hugging his toy dinosaur like it was his world.

Each day felt like a balm. The girls were relentless in their mission to distract me—in the best way. We talked about Mom. About grief. About life after someone you love becomes memory.

There were tears, but there was laughter too. So much laughter. The kind that comes from deep in your belly and leaves your cheeks sore.

On the last night, we sat on a rooftop patio overlooking a sleepy harbor town. The sky was painted in dusky orange and purples. Liv handed me a margarita and said, “You ready to go back to Vegas?”

I nodded. For the first time in days, I meant it.

“I’m not saying everything’s okay. But I’m ready to be okay again.”

They clinked their glasses to mine. Tessa smirked. “To surviving dads, deadlines, and the men we might not be able to avoid forever.”

Mia giggled. “And to motherhood. And margaritas.”

We toasted under the stars, our laughter drifting into the night like music.

I didn’t know what the next week held. But I knew this—no matter what awaited me in Vegas, I wasn’t walking back into it with a shattered heart.

I had my girls. I had my fight.

And I had a part of me again I thought I’d lost.

\---

Back at home that Friday evening, the air felt different—quieter somehow. The house that had been bustling with laughter, wine glasses clinking, and the occasional sound of Liam’s squeals now felt like it was holding its breath.

The girls had all retired to their rooms, packing up their lives into neat little suitcases, ready to return to the real world come morning. I should’ve been doing the same—folding clothes, zipping up my heels, sorting toiletries—but something inside me was unsettled. Heavy. A dull ache that no amount of sunsets or spa days could completely numb.

I found myself wandering the hallway like I used to as a little girl, barefoot on the warm hardwood floors, brushing my fingers along the framed photos on the wall. A few were new—business plaques, awards, moments he deemed important. But the old ones were still there too. A picture of Mom holding me as a baby, one of all three of us at the beach before the storms began, a rare image of Dad actually smiling.

I paused outside his office. The door was half-open, the light spilling out across the floor like a quiet invitation.

I didn’t knock.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He was seated behind his massive oak desk, the one that always made him look like he was conducting an empire instead of being someone’s father. Papers were spread out in front of him, reading glasses perched low on his nose, the same focused look etched across his face—the one that always made me feel small.

He looked up as I walked in, expression unreadable. “Lila,” he said, like my name was a question.

I didn’t sit. I stood in front of the desk, hands tucked into the sleeves of my cardigan to keep them from shaking.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“I assumed.”

“And before I do, I need to say something.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just sat back slightly, brows raised like he was waiting for a proposal or a resignation. Maybe both.

“I’m choosing my work,” I said. “I’m choosing me.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “So this is your answer then? You’re really walking away from the Grayson legacy?”

I almost laughed. Legacy. As if that word had ever held warmth.

“I’m not walking away,” I said, voice firmer now. “I was never really in it to begin with. You built this empire without me. You raised me like a stranger living under your roof, checking in only when it was convenient or when Mom made you. You never asked what I wanted. You just decided. For me. For her.”

He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak. Not yet. I had waited too long to be heard.

“You wanted me to go to Harvard. I went to Boston. You wanted business, I chose fashion. You wanted a protégé. I wanted a parent.” I swallowed, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “And the sad part is—I spent years trying to earn your attention. I thought maybe if I worked harder, did better, I’d get a pat on the back or a ‘good job, Lila.’ But it never came. I was never enough for you, and I kept hoping one day I would be.”

His eyes had softened now. Barely. But I saw the flicker

“You lost Mom. And I know that broke something in you. But you didn’t just lose her. I did too. And unlike you, I didn’t have someone to disappear into. No business. No boardrooms. No empire to hide in. I just had silence. And grief. And a dad who treated me like an employee waiting to be useful.”

I took a shaky breath. “I’m done chasing crumbs. If all I’ll ever be to you is a disappointment, that’s fine. But I deserve more than this half-fathering. I don’t need a name on a company. I needed a dad. And you never showed up.”

Silence filled the room like water, thick and suffocating.

He didn’t speak.

Good.

Because there was nothing else I wanted to hear.

I turned to go. My hand brushed the edge of the doorframe. “You should try being a dad to me now, if there’s anything left in you. Because I’m not going to beg for it anymore.”

I left him there—behind the desk, behind the silence, behind the years of pretending that being present financially made up for emotional absence.

Back in my room, I finally let my shoulders drop. I opened my bag and began folding clothes, one piece at a time, feeling lighter with every pair of jeans I packed.

I wasn’t the little girl waiting by the stairs anymore.

I was going back to Vegas in the morning. And this time, I was leaving nothing behind.

Except maybe the hope that he’d ever be something he never tried to be.