Chloe #2
She smiles. “Like he doesn’t know how to exist without you.”
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. I clench my jaw against the ache in my chest, looking down at the bedspread so I don’t have to meet Ivy’s earnest gaze.
I spend the next several days with Ivy, trying to recover from the injuries while also trying to navigate the storm inside me.
My body is mending well, the wounds healing, but the pain in my heart feels like it’s only getting worse.
It’s hard to breathe most days, and it has nothing to do with the ribs I cracked.
It’s as if there’s something heavy pressing down on my chest, squeezing the air out of my lungs.
Ivy does her best to support me, her presence a small comfort.
She heads out to volunteer at the children’s hospital most mornings, coming back with funny stories about the kids she reads to.
But despite her kindness and the effort she makes to help me feel better, I can’t shake the growing sadness.
It’s as if each day that passes brings a new layer of grief, a deeper sense of loss I can’t pin down.
Her condo is bright and safe, but it feels like a temporary haven rather than a cure. I want so desperately to find peace, but the more time I spend here, the more I realize the wounds inside me might be more complicated than the ones on the surface.
Once I’m able to walk without crutches and the bruises have faded to a light, mottled green and blue, I brace myself and head to MediaSphere to see my father.
It’s something I’ve been dreading, but it’s time.
The drive over feels endless, each mile bringing me closer to a confrontation I’m not sure I’m ready for.
I insist on driving myself, rather than having my driver take me. I haven’t been behind the wheel in a while, but as the miles sweep by, I find myself settling into the rhythm.
The MediaSphere lobby is familiar, but not in a comforting way. I get into the elevator, jabbing the button for the top floor and bracing myself to face my father.
I take a deep breath before entering his office.
When the door swings open, he’s there, behind his desk, looking up from his paperwork with a look of surprise that quickly turns into a measured smile. Genevieve is sitting across from him, her eyes flitting to me with a hint of curiosity.
“Chloe!” My father’s voice is a little too enthusiastic, and it grates on me. “It’s good to see you. When are you coming back to work?”
His words hit me like a slap. I had hoped for a moment of real concern, a sign that he cared about how I’m doing, but all he seems interested in is my return to the office.
It makes me feel like my value is tied solely to my productivity, like my worth is measured by the work I do rather than who I am.
It hits me that I haven’t seen any of my family since the accident. None of them have seen fit to visit, or even reach out.
The thought stings more than I expected. I’ve been isolated in my own struggle, and now facing my father, I realize how alone I’ve felt through this whole thing. The vacuum of their absence, the lack of support from those who should be closest to me—it’s crushing.
I resist the urge to wrap my arms around my torso and clench my fists at my sides instead. “Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to think about it yet. I’m still recovering.”
My father ignores the pointed reminder of the accident. He nods, but his eyes are already drifting back to the stack of papers on his desk. “Right, of course. But when you’re ready, we’ll need you back. The studio project has been on hold.”
My voice hardens as I face my father, my frustration boiling over. “Dad, I need to ask you something directly. Did you know what Genevieve was doing?”
Genevieve’s face flushes a deep red, her eyes widening in shock. I can see the realization dawning on her that her secret is out, and I meet her gaze squarely.
For once, I want her to realize that this isn’t about her.
The discomfort in the room thickens, and my father’s expression goes blank. He hesitates, a moment of indecision crossing his features. I can almost see him weighing whether to lie or to come clean.
Finally, he takes a deep breath and meets my gaze. “The decision was made to keep you out of it,” he says, his tone measured but cold. “We thought it was best for you not to be involved.”
I had hoped for honesty, for transparency, but instead, I’m met with this calculated dodge. Of course. I’m not sure why I expected anything different.
I listen in stunned silence as my father continues, his voice cold and matter-of-fact.
“Genevieve told me and your mother about your feelings for Tristan. We never expected you to develop such emotions, and frankly, we couldn’t trust you to put the company’s interests first if you were emotionally involved. ”
His words hit me like a punch in the gut. The realization that my own sister reported my private feelings back to our parents—feelings I shared with her in confidence—makes me sick.
I glance at Genevieve, who’s now avoiding my stare, her own gaze fixed on the floor beside my father’s desk.
The betrayal cuts deeper than I could have ever imagined.
Not only did Genevieve sneak into my office to steal sensitive information from Tristan, but she also took my most personal revelations and used them against me. Nausea rolls through me as it sinks in.