Chapter 219

~ Clinton ~

"You should go see him."

I’d been staring at my laptop for hours, not really seeing anything on the screen. Annie’s voice pulled me back to reality. She was standing in the doorway of my home office, looking at me with that expression that said she’d been watching me struggle for a while now.

"What?" I asked, even though I knew exactly what she meant.

"Your father," she said softly, coming to sit on the edge of my desk. She took my hand in hers, her touch warm and grounding. "You haven’t said his name in weeks. You won’t talk about the trial. You won’t talk about what happened. But I can see it’s eating you up, Clinton. Like you’re carrying this weight and you can’t put it down. I think you need closure. I think you need to face him and get the answers you’re looking for."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her that some wounds didn’t need to be reopened. That some people didn’t deserve a second conversation. That my father had made his choices and so had I, and there was nothing more to say.

But looking at her face, at the concern in her eyes, at the way she was looking at me like she believed in me, I realized she was right. This was eating me up. It was eating me alive.

"Okay," I said quietly, squeezing her hand. "I’ll go."

I had dressed up later that day to go. Annie went to see her mother, Trudy. Who is asking me what would become of the mansion now.

The prison was exactly what I expected. I absolutely could not wait to get out of here. The guards processed me, took my information, checked my ID like I was a criminal myself. I sat in the waiting area with my hands clenched in my lap, my heart hammering like it was trying to escape my chest.

I watched other visitors come and go. Families mostly. Women crying. Children confused about why their parent was behind glass. I wondered if any of them were here for the same reason I was, to try to understand how the person they loved could become someone so capable of cruelty.

When they brought him out, I barely recognized him.

He was in an orange jumpsuit, his hair grayer than I remembered, his face harder. Older. Like prison had aged him ten years in a few months. He sat down across from me behind the thick glass, and for a moment, we just stared at each other. I was looking for something, some sign of the father I used to know. Some flicker of humanity.

I found nothing.

"Clinton," he said finally, his voice flat and emotionless. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

"Yeah, well," I said, picking up the phone on my side of the glass. My hand was shaking slightly. "I didn’t expect to have a father who tried to have his own son killed."

His expression didn’t change. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t show even a hint of regret. "Is that why you came? To accuse me? To make yourself feel better about your betrayal?"

"I came to understand," I said, my voice shaking. "I came hoping that maybe... maybe somewhere in there you’d realize what you did was wrong. That you’d be sorry. That maybe you weren’t completely the monster I think you are."

He laughed. Actually laughed. It echoed through the phone line, a cold, hollow sound that made my skin crawl.

"Sorry?" he said, leaning back in his chair like he was relaxing. Like this was amusing to him. "Why would I be sorry? I did what I had to do to protect my interests. You were weak, Clinton. You always have been. Siding with Franklin, helping his wife, testifying against your own father. That’s weakness."

My jaw clenched. "You tried to kill him."

"I tried to remove an obstacle," Dorian said coolly, his eyes cold and calculating. "And yes, I used you to do it. That’s business. That’s the real world. You think the world cares about your moral compass? You think it matters what you believe is right? It doesn’t. What matters is power. Control. And you were too soft to understand that."

"Because the alternative was being like you," I said, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm. "And I’d rather die than become like you."

Dorian leaned forward, and his eyes were dangerous. Completely devoid of any paternal feeling whatsoever. They were the eyes of a predator looking at prey.

"Then stop coming here," he said coldly. "Stop trying to find some redemption in me, because it doesn’t exist. I disown you, Clinton. You’re not my son anymore. As far as I’m concerned, you never were. You made your choice when you chose them over me."

The words hit harder than I expected. Even though I’d prepared myself. Even though I knew this man was toxic and incapable of love. Even though I’d spent weeks telling myself I didn’t care what he thought.

But hearing it still hurt like a knife to the chest.

"Is that it?" I asked quietly. "You’re just going to disown me? No apology? No explanation? Just... nothing?"

"That’s it," he said, and he actually looked away from me, signaling that he was done. That the conversation was over. Then he looked back, and his expression turned even darker. More dangerous. "But before you go, listen to me carefully. Watch your back."

"What?" I asked, confused.

"There are people out there who don’t forgive easily," he said quietly, his voice low and menacing. "People who take loyalty seriously. People who believe you either stand with them or against them. You made enemies when you testified against me, Clinton. You made enemies when you sided with the Flemingtons. You made enemies when you walked away from this family. Watch. Your. Back."

The phone line crackled. His words hung in the air between us like a threat.

The conversation was over. He stood up and signaled to the guards, and within seconds, he was being led away. I watched him disappear through the back door, my hand still holding the phone even though there was nothing but silence on the other end.

He wasn’t remorseful. He didn’t care. He’d disowned me like I was nothing. And worse, he’d left me with a warning about enemies I didn’t even know existed.

I stood up slowly, my legs shaky, and walked toward the exit. The guards processed me back out, I retrieved my personal items, and I stepped out into the afternoon sun, squinting against the brightness.

The air was crisp and fresh, a stark contrast to the stale, recycled air inside the prison. I took a deep breath and tried to clear my mind. Tried to process what had just happened. Tried to make sense of the conversation with a man who was supposed to be my father but felt like a stranger. A dangerous stranger.

I was walking toward the parking lot, my mind spinning, when I saw someone.

A figure near the visitor parking area, partially hidden in the shadow cast by a line of parked cars. They were wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, talking quietly on their phone. Something about them was familiar. Something I recognized.

I slowed my pace, trying to get a better look. The person turned slightly, and for just a moment, just a fraction of a second, I could see the person well.

I was supposed to be going but something drew my attention to the mystery figure.

My heart stopped.

I knew that face. I knew that face anywhere . But what was they doing here? At a prison? Visiting my father?

Before I could fully process what I was seeing, the person ended their call, turned, and looked directly at me. Our eyes met, she had an expression of what looked like surprise mixed with something else. Something I couldn’t quite identify.

Then they turned away quickly and walked away.

I stood frozen in the middle of the parking lot, my mind racing.

What was she doing here?

And why did seeing her fill me with a sense of dread I couldn’t explain?