Chapter 16 #2
A bittersweet smile crept onto my face as the memory rolled over me. Things had gone to hell barely four weeks after that night. And I’d completely forgotten our little adventure until now.
Looking at the photo of the two of us, tangled in a blanket, smiling like the world was ours, I felt something. It was an ache in my chest.
I missed him. Not just him, but us. What we used to be. And I didn’t admit this often—even to myself—but a part of me still wanted him, still loved him.
I hated how things ended. Hated that he could believe those ridiculous accusations about me. After everything we’d shared, how could he think I was just using him? That I didn’t love him? But even through the anger, I still loved him.
Maybe I never stopped.
Maybe I never would.
I didn’t realize I was crying until a teardrop landed on the photo. I wiped it quickly with the back of my hand and dropped the picture into the discard pile. Because love or not, the reality was this: he’d moved on. He was getting married. I needed to move on, too. Fully. Finally.
There was only one bedroom left after mine. My father’s. I dreaded packing it up, but I had to. I started with his clothes, then moved on to the drawers, tossing what needed tossing, folding what I could donate, until I stumbled across an envelope.
My name was scrawled across the front. To Leila.
I stared at it. They’d told me he left a letter. I never picked it up. Never read it. I’d told myself it didn’t matter.
But now, holding it in my hand, I hesitated.
I thought about tossing it. But curiosity won.
With a breath, I unfolded the paper and began to read it carefully, slowly, taking in every single word.
My dear Leila,
I wasn’t the father you deserved. That’s the truth. Somewhere along the line, I let life and its weight get the better of me. The debts. The disappointments. The constant feeling that I was running out of time and options. I let all of it turn me into a man I don’t recognize.
And I took it out on you.
You were the one thing in my life that had hope in it.
You looked at the world with color in your eyes, and I crushed that under all my baggage.
I started using your love life like a ladder—thinking if you ended up with someone powerful or wealthy, it’d pull us out of the hole we were in. And that was wrong.
What I should have cared about was your happiness. Your peace. The kind of love that made you feel safe and seen.
You remember the backyard? You used to sit out there for hours with that sketchpad, drawing new layouts for the house—changing the curtains to yellow because “the room looked too sad”.
I used to peek through the window and watch you work, and I remember thinking, she’s going to make something beautiful out of this world one day.
Don’t let that part of you go, Leila. Don’t let the world take that from you. You talked about tech design like it was magic—like you could turn spaces into stories. I want you to chase that again.
You’ve been surviving. But I want you to live.
You've been living only for Ollie, and I admire that. He’s lucky to have you. But he needs a mother who remembers she’s more than just his mom. He needs a woman who’s full of dreams and love and light.
You deserve a life, Leila. Not just survival. Not just sacrifice.
And if someone ever offers you love—real love—with presence, patience, and kindness, don’t turn away. Don’t let what happened with me or anyone else make you afraid. You’re worthy.
I am proud of the woman you’ve become, Leila.
I know I didn’t say it enough. Maybe I never said it at all. But I was proud of you. Always.
I hope one day you can forgive me.
Live, Leila.
With all the love I never knew how to show,
Dad.
I folded the letter slowly, allowing the words of my father to settle over me.
They felt like an old wound finally getting air.
I hadn’t even known I was waiting for an apology.
But there it was, tucked into every sentence, filled with regret and love and everything he never said while he was alive.
And it broke me a little.
Because underneath the anger, the hurt, the history…I’d still wanted his love. Still craved his approval. Still craved the memory of who he used to be.
I pressed the letter to my chest and closed my eyes.
My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my back pocket to see.
It showed Victor Vaughn.
I stared at the name for a moment. He’d texted earlier, something about dinner and “no pressure”. Now he was calling.
I hesitated, thumb hovering over the answer button.
Then, I hit it.
“Hey,” I said, surprised at how steady my voice sounded.
“Hey.” His voice was warm. “Hope I’m not catching you at a weird time.”
I glanced at the letter. “No, you’re not.”
“Okay, great. You didn’t reply to my text, so I assumed you didn’t see it.
Maybe it’s better to ask in person than over text.
Lunch the other day was nice. So, I was thinking we could do dinner.
I found this little spot on the Upper East Side of the Bronx.
Nothing fancy. But the garlic bread? Might ruin your life. ”
I opened my mouth to say no. The word was right there, sitting on the edge of my tongue. Because no had become a reflex. A shield. A way to keep the world at arm’s length.
And then I remembered the letter.
My father’s words rang in my mind. You’ve been surviving. But I want you to live.
Victor had been nothing but good to me. Plus, he was just asking for dinner. And I had turned down his invitation to the Manhattan gala the last time. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be a little more…approachable this time.
“I guess I could use a taste of life-ruining bread right now.”
“So that’s a yes?” he asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“How about Monday night? Say, seven p.m.?”
I had a meeting with Elena earlier that day to go over some of the wedding plans, but it shouldn’t run past five.
“Seven p.m. Monday sounds perfect,” I said.
“Wonderful. I can’t wait.” He paused. “And Leila?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you picked up.”
Maybe it was time to stop keeping Victor at arm’s length. Maybe I should take my father’s advice and start living. After all, Victor had always been kind to me. And he believed me — even when my own Fated Mate didn’t.