Filthy Rich Single Daddies (Filthy Rich Harems #2)

21. Skylar

Chapter 21

Skylar

I zip the overnight bag shut, my movements sharp and efficient. It's just one night—barely a few hours in that suffocating world of marble mausoleums and feigned sympathies. I can survive that much.

I spin on my heel, ready to head for the door, but Theo blocks my path. His presence, like a boulder in a stream, diverts the current of my determination.

"Skylar, you shouldn't be alone.” His voice is steady, but there’s something raw just beneath the surface.

"Like hell, I shouldn't." My words are ice, a blizzard swirling inside me. "I don't need an entourage, Theo."

He doesn’t move. He just stands there, watching me like he can will me into agreeing. His green eyes search mine, seeking entry into the fortress of my resolve. I won't let him see the cracks.

"Cohen wants to be there for you, too," he says. "And Austin—"

"Is Austin," I finish, rolling my eyes. "So what? You all planning a field trip to my personal hell?"

Theo doesn't flinch at my biting tone. He's always been like this, the calm to my storm. But right now, his tranquility feels like a taunt.

"I know your family is complicated," he says.

"Complicated?" The word is acid on my tongue. "Try toxic."

He doesn’t argue. Just steps closer, voice softer. "You don’t have to do this alone, Skylark. We can face them together."

"Them?" My laugh is bitter, hollow. "You mean the high society that chewed me up and spat me out?"

"Skylar—"

"No, Theo." I cut him off with a raised hand, my overnight bag clutched in the other. "I don't want you there. And certainly not because of some misplaced sense of duty to a girl you left behind years ago."

"Why won’t you let me be there for you?" he persists, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

"Me?" I scoff, shaking my head. "What do you know about me anymore?"

"More than you want to admit."

"Stay here, Theo," I command, my voice laced with finality. "This is my battle. Not yours."

"Skylar," he says softly, but I've heard enough.

"Stop." My voice is steel, even as my resolve wavers under his intense green gaze. "I already told you no."

He doesn't budge, his casual stance at odds with the stubborn set of his jaw. I sidestep him, brushing against the soft cotton of his shirt, and he smells like home and heartache. It's almost enough to break me.

"Sky," he begins again, following me now, a shadow I can't shake.

"God, Theo! Just—stop, okay?" I snap, spinning on my heels to face him. His proximity is a tangible force, the air between us charged with words left unsaid.

"I don't want you there. Take a fucking hint."

His hand lifts, fingers gentle against the line of my jaw, tracing skin that burns at his touch. "I know you're hurting," he murmurs, eyes searching mine, seeing too much. "Lean on me—when you're ready. I'm not going anywhere. Ever."

I stare back at him, every fiber of my being screaming to relent, to collapse into those arms that promise solace. But I harden instead, erecting walls he has no right to tear down.

"Your stubbornness isn't charming, Theo. It's suffocating."

He doesn't flinch, doesn't waver. And as I leave him standing there, something inside me fractures—a tiny crack in the armor I've spent years fortifying.

My pulse stutters. But I shove it down, not yielding to it. I can't. Not now. Not with my father’s funeral looming and everything it has dragged to the surface. I ignore Theo behind me and head for the front door.

Cohen's there, leaning against the frame. He doesn't speak right away, just watches me with those knowing eyes, as if he can see through the cracks in my facade.

"Hey," he says softly, reaching out. His fingers brush a stray curl from my forehead, tucking it behind my ear with a gentleness that feels like far too much for me at the moment.

"I'm here." The simple promise lingers in the air between us. "When you're ready."

I nod, because what else can I do? Words are too much; they ask for more than I can give. So I step past him, feeling the ghost of his touch like a whisper over my skin.

The car pulls up, sleek and black, waiting to whisk me away from this place, from them. I slip inside without looking back, without saying goodbye to Austin, or acknowledging Theo's lingering presence. The driver shuts the door, cocooning me in silence and solitude.

But that elusive peace is short-lived.

As we near the hangar where Austin's jet waits—the one show of support he bothered to offer—I spot him. Not Austin. Theo.

How the hell did he even beat me here?

"Damn it, Theo," I mutter under my breath, frustration simmering hot beneath the surface. He shouldn't be here. He's the last thing I need right now.

The car door opens and I step out, bracing myself for the confrontation I know is coming. My heart stutters again, but I quash the sensation ruthlessly. Emotions are a luxury I can't afford, not with the gauntlet I'm about to run.

"Skylar," he calls out, and I steel myself, ready to face him and whatever storm he brings with him.

I stride across the tarmac, the roar of the jet engines a backdrop to the turmoil swirling inside me. The sleek silhouette of Austin's private plane looms ahead. I can do this. I can get there without acknowledging him, without giving in.

"Skylar, wait," he says, his voice carrying over the noise. I don't slow down. This is a journey I need to take alone, a final goodbye to a man who never truly saw me.

"Please." There's an edge of desperation in Theo's plea, but it doesn’t sway me. It can't. Not when every step toward that plane takes me closer to a past I'd rather forget.

"Damn it, Theo," I snap without turning, "you're not coming with me."

But he's persistent, has always been, ever since we were kids and sneaking around corners of my father's estate. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much that he never fought for me. He just let them tear us apart.

He catches up, falls into step beside me, his gait easy even as my own is rigid with tension.

"Skylar," he says again, his hand brushing against mine, and I jerk away, my skin tingling from the brief contact.

"Stop," I hiss, hating the way my defenses crumble with just a touch. "You shouldn't have followed me."

"Can't let you go alone," he replies, green eyes piercing through the defenses I've tried to maintain. "Not when you're hurting like this."

"Like you know anything about how I feel," I retort, glaring at him now.

"Maybe not," he says, quiet but firm. "But I’m not leaving."

I turn away, stepping onto the plane without another word. The cabin is silent save for the hum of the engines.

"Miss Deveraux, Mr. Shepherd," the flight attendant greets us, revealing nothing of her thoughts on the tension that must surely be palpable between us.

"Thank you," I murmur, making my way to the leather seats, sinking into one as far away from Theo as possible.

He joins me anyway, taking the seat opposite, his gaze never leaving my face. "You know I'm here for you, Skylar. Whenever you're ready."

"Ready?" I scoff, meeting his intense stare. "I'll never be ready to walk back into that world. Your world."

"Then let me help carry the burden. Just a little."

I let out a bitter laugh. "You can’t. Not this."

"Your father—" he starts, but I cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"Was no father to me. And you know it."

He doesn’t argue. He knows better. The silence between us is thick with everything we’ve been—everything we used to be. I close my eyes, willing the memories away, but they don’t budge. They never do.

"Skylark," Theo whispers, his voice steady despite the roar of the jet picking up speed. "I know I’ve let you down before. But not this time. I’m here, whether you want me to be or not."

The funeral is a spectacle.

Not in the way funerals should be—quiet, somber, respectful—but in the way that only the absurdly wealthy can make grief feel like a performance. The cathedral itself is beautiful, if unexpected. My father was hardly a religious man and I know my stepmother has never set foot in a church—if she had, she would surely have burst into blasphemous flames.

But they’ve taken the natural beauty of this building and turned it into something else entirely. The air is thick with perfume and hushed gossip, the kind of whispered condolences that sound more like stock phrases than genuine sentiments. White roses spill over every surface, their cloying scent clashing with the gleaming gold accents and the polished marble beneath my heels.

It’s excessive. It’s theatrical. It’s exactly the kind of show my stepmother would orchestrate.

I step through the towering double doors, my heels clicking against marble so polished it could be a mirror. Conversations hush, whispers slither through the air, and a chill settles over the room that has nothing to do with the temperature.

Despite the fact that it's my father on display at the front of the cavernous room, my arrival was clearly unexpected.

At the front of the room, a woman stands draped in couture black, diamonds glittering at her throat, grief painted on like the rest of her makeup. Trista. My darling stepmother.

She clearly wasn’t expecting me. I see it in the way her posture stiffens when I step inside, the slight widening of her perfectly lined eyes before she smooths it all away beneath a practiced mask of grief.

Her gaze moves to Theo beside me, and for a moment, something flickers across her face—shock, surprise, maybe even a touch of disdain. It’s gone in an instant, but not before I notice.

She doesn’t like it. My presence at this "event" or Theo's presence at my side.

Her mouth tightens, her gaze lingering for a beat too long, calculating. She won’t make a scene. Not yet. Not until she can maximize the damage.

She smooths a perfectly manicured hand over her hip, then turns back to the guests, the picture of composed devastation.

It won’t last.

I take my seat near the back, Theo following suit, our presence acknowledged only in stolen glances and shifting shoulders. No one speaks to me. No one asks why I’m here. They already know I don’t belong.

The service drags on, an endless stream of hollow words that feel foreign when attached to my father. They call him generous. They call him a man of integrity. They call him a loving husband, a devoted patriarch. I stare at the casket, wondering if he’d recognize the version of himself being eulogized.

Then, silence. A beat too long. A moment stretched thin.

And then—

Trista moves.

She dabs at her eyes, her breath shuddering just enough to be heard, before she rises from her seat. The widow in black. The tragic, grieving wife.

And I know. This is the moment she’s been waiting for.

“I just…” She pauses, swallows, gathers herself. “I just want to say a few words.”

She turns to face the mourners, but her gaze lands on me.

"I know we all want to honor my husband's memory today," she begins, voice soft yet clear, a well-rehearsed tremor giving it weight. "And I know he would have wanted this day to be about love. About family."

She sighs, her fingers tightening around the handkerchief she hasn't actually used.

"But it pains me that some people—" A pause. A glance in my direction. "—don't understand the meaning of respect."

The air in the room shifts. Attention locks onto me.

I stay quiet. My jaw clenches, but I remain still. I know the role she’s trying to force me into. She won’t get it. Not this time.

Trista leans into the moment, her lips quivering as she turns toward the mourners, voice rising in false indignation. “He would have wanted peace,” she continues. “He would have wanted dignity. And instead, we have…this.”

Her gaze drifts over to me again, her lips curling with a smirk before it disappears behind another tearful gesture.

I inhale sharply through my nose but I don’t flinch.

She’s baiting me.

She wants a reaction, a reason to turn me into the villain of her carefully spun tragedy.

I won’t give it to her.

The hush in the room feels suffocating, like the air itself is holding its breath, waiting for the next act in her performance.

Trista looks around, her eyes wide with faux shock, lips trembling just enough to make it convincing. “I tried. I tried to make him happy,” she says, her voice rising as she glances at the mourners. “I gave him everything. My love, my devotion, my loyalty.”

Her words roll off her tongue like velvet, but I know the truth. She gave him nothing but control and self-interest. But I don’t speak. I just watch her, every word from her mouth pulling at the seams of my own restraint.

“But there are some people here today,” she continues, her eyes cutting to me again, “who…who just can’t seem to understand the importance of family. Of sticking together, through thick and thin. Who want to make this about them .”

The guilt-tripping is blatant. She’s the tragic widow, forsaken and misunderstood, and I’m the heartless stepdaughter ruining her grief. She waits for the murmur of sympathy that follows, as if she’s already calculating the success of her performance.

Her eyes flick to Theo once more, lingering, and I catch the flicker of something—something darker in the way her gaze narrows.

“We should be focused on honoring my husband’s memory,” Trista continues, her voice trembling with the weight of her melodramatic grief. “But it’s hard to do that when others come here to stir up conflict. To make a spectacle of what should be a time of peace.”

My heart races, not with anger, but with something heavier, more suffocating. Outsider. Intruder. Imposter. All words I’ve heard, all feelings I’ve buried deep for too long. Trista’s carefully crafted martyrdom is only amplifying what I’ve always known: I don’t belong here. Not in this world, not among these people.

I sit straighter, willing myself not to let the heat rise in my chest, not to let the suffocating weight of this family’s cruelty take root again.

She’s watching me, like a predator sizing up her prey, waiting for me to crack. She’ll twist whatever I say or do into another piece of the drama she’s creating.

“I just…I just wanted a peaceful life with him,” Trista continues, voice lowering into a delicate sob. She clutches her handkerchief as though it might be the only thing keeping her upright, even though her back is as straight as ever.

“I gave him everything. My love, my loyalty. I tried to make him happy, to give him a family, to keep the peace.”

She pauses, scanning the room as if searching for allies, her gaze briefly brushing over the mourners, who watch her, captivated by her theatrics.

A soft sob escapes her lips, and she bites her bottom lip, shaking her head as if the very thought of it is unbearable. And then, just as the room seems on the verge of breaking into collective sympathy, she lifts her chin, eyes locking onto me once more.

"But there are some people who just can’t seem to understand the importance of family,” she says, her voice rising just enough to ensure the words carry. “Some people who would rather tear everything down just to make themselves feel important. That’s the kind of selfishness that ruins families.”

The words land with a thud, echoing in the room, and I feel the eyes of every single person turn toward me. My pulse quickens, and for a brief moment, I think I might choke on the weight of the silence that follows. The room holds its breath, and I feel every eye in the room burn through me.

She’s no longer pretending to mourn. She’s painting me as the villain, the one who’s come to ruin her perfect life, her perfect marriage, her perfect family.

I swallow hard, but I don’t flinch. I won’t give her the satisfaction. I won’t become part of her twisted story.

Trista lets the silence drag on, her eyes never leaving mine. She seems to savor the weight of the tension before continuing, voice laced with false sincerity, “I just...I just don’t understand why some people—” She glances at me again, then quickly turns away, “—can’t leave well enough alone.”

I brace myself for what comes next, knowing full well that every word she says from here on will only deepen the divide she’s already tried to create.

But I won’t be her scapegoat. Not today. Never again.

I stand up slowly, feeling the weight of every gaze on me as I make my way to the front, my heels clicking against the marble floor, sharp and sure. Trista’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t stop me. She doesn’t want me to leave—not now. She wants me to fight. To engage.

But I won’t give her that satisfaction.

I stop in front of her, my back straight, my breath steady. “I’m not here to make a spectacle of his memory,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension, low but unwavering. “I’m here because he was my father, and I deserve the right to say goodbye to him. This”—I gesture to the opulent room, the lavish decorations, the staged sorrow—“is not what he would have wanted. Not for me. Not for anyone.”

Her face freezes, and I can see the moment the mask slips. For a heartbeat, the woman who has built an empire on manipulation and control falters. But she quickly regains composure, pressing her lips together in a thin line.

"Don’t pretend you knew him," she hisses, her voice sharp. "You never did. You were never part of this family."

I take a deep breath, my gaze steady on hers. "Maybe that’s the problem," I say, my voice quiet but firm. “Maybe you never wanted me to be."

And with that, I turn on my heel and walk away, the sound of my footsteps the only thing breaking the silence.

As I make my way out of the room, I feel a strange sense of peace settling in. It’s the kind of peace I haven’t felt in years. Maybe this is the moment I finally stop pretending. Maybe this is the moment I walk away from everything that’s never truly been mine.

Theo catches up to me by the door, his hand brushing mine as I step into the quiet of the hallway.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low, concerned.

Theo's hand settles on my shoulder, his touch a tether I never asked for. He stands too close. His refusal to leave, even now, is a violation of my last sanctuary.

"Please, don't." The words scrape raw from my throat, but he doesn't flinch.

"You don't have to go through this alone."

"Alone is how I've lived it, Theo," I shoot back, shaking off his hand. "Alone is how I'll survive it."

I move away, finding refuge near a stained-glass window where fragmented light scatters across my path. Each color is a memory I wish I could forget—the crimson of whispered arguments, the sapphire of tears shed in silence, the gold of expectations unmet.

"Your father would have wanted—"

"Stop," I cut him off, the word a lash. "He wanted nothing to do with me. And she made sure of it."

My stepmother's voice crescendos then, shrill and insistent as she recounts her version of the story—a narrative crafted to serve her own ends, painting her as the bereaved widow, cruelly abandoned by her stepdaughter. She’s abandoned all pretenses of this being about my father, her husband, and his death.

I walk away from the chaos of my stepmother’s performance, from Theo continuing to ignore what I want. The room seems to close in on me as I make my way down the long, echoing hallway.

It isn’t just her. It’s everything. This world of wealth and privilege—it suffocates me. It always has.

I find a quiet corner, a window that overlooks the manicured gardens, where nothing feels real anymore. The tears that have been threatening to spill all afternoon stay put, but my thoughts are a storm.

Theo is still behind me, of course.

“Skylark,” his voice is soft, tentative, but there’s an urgency underneath. "Please, baby."

I turn, my eyes flashing with frustration. I can feel the emotions welling up, the years of being overlooked, dismissed, of being abandoned. "You just don't listen, do you?" The words are sharp, but they feel necessary. "What is it you even want from me, Theo? You want to play house for a little while, make me fall for you all over again, and then just walk away a second time?"

His face tightens in confusion, and I see the frustration in his eyes too. He’s trying to help, trying to be here for me, but it feels like a foreign concept. Like he’s still trying to make me fit into a life I’ve never wanted.

“I’m just trying to be here for you. Don’t shut me out.”

It’s the same argument we always have. He wants to fix things, but he doesn’t see that the real problem is deeper than any gesture he can offer. It’s in the very foundation of this world I was born into. The wealth, the image, the status—none of it was ever mine. They’ve always treated me like an outsider, like a shadow that only half-belongs in their perfect picture.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say, my voice quieter now, the anger slowly bleeding out. “Maybe I’ve been shutting you out. But you’re not hearing me. You want to pull me into this world, into the life I’ve tried to escape, but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep pretending that I fit here.”

Theo takes a step forward, his face softening, but it’s not enough. “You don’t have to fit in, Sky. You don’t have to change who you are. I don't want you to.”

But I already have, haven’t I? For years, I’ve tried to blend in, to find a place among them, even as they made it clear that I was never meant to be a part of their world. All that effort, all that bending and twisting to meet their expectations—what did it get me? A few half-hearted attempts at love? A family who only wanted to control me and then abandoned me completely when I wouldn't become some Stepford daughter?

“Maybe I don’t need to change who I am,” I murmur, almost to myself. “But I don’t want to be a part of this anymore. Not with you, not with Cohen, not with Austin...”

Theo flinches like I’ve struck him, and for a moment, I see something raw in his eyes—hurt, confusion, but also a sliver of understanding. Maybe it’s the same realization that’s settling in my own chest: that I’ve been lying to myself, pretending this world could somehow be mine.

“I think I need to figure things out on my own,” I continue, my voice steady now. “I can’t keep holding on to something that’s never been real.”

Theo’s silence speaks volumes. He’s not going to argue. Not now. I’m not sure if it’s relief or something darker that’s filling the space between us, but I know one thing for sure. This is the first time in years I’ve felt like I’m taking control of my life, and for the first time, I feel a little lighter. It’s not Theo or Cohen or Austin—it’s me. It’s my choice. My decision to walk away from the chaos, the privilege, and the toxic web they’ve all tangled me in.

“You don’t have to make any decisions now,” Theo says quietly, his voice soft but firm. “But whatever you choose, I’ll respect it.”

I nod, swallowing the knot that’s formed in my throat. “I know. But right now, I need space. I need time to think.”

I don’t look back as I walk away. Maybe this is the beginning of letting go—of finally unshackling myself from the suffocating expectations and false promises of a family I never truly had. Maybe this is where I start to live for myself.