Epilogue
Three Months Later
Pretty Dirty isn't busy yet. I only opened the doors to my new dog grooming place on Main Street a few days ago.
The shop is Vivienne Westwood-inspired. Tartan everywhere — black, red and pink on the cushions, the apron hanging beside the grooming station, even the lining inside the glass display cabinet. Dark wood and brass warm every surface.
The grooming station along the back wall sits on an ornate plinth. Once the dogs are up there, they look as though they belong in some Victorian oil painting before I've even touched a brush.
I didn't want to give up grooming, but I also didn't want to lose my financial independence. The problem is that Echo Valley is small, and there are only so many dogs desperate for a luxury blowout.
One night I was having a beer with Luis' girlfriend, Julia and she told me she's into leatherwork and haberdashery. One beer turned into many, and now we've started a line of dog collars, harnesses and accessories for stylish pups.
Turns out designing them has tapped into a creative part of myself I didn't realize I had, a side where I feel a sense of calm I think people must feel when they meditate.
Word spreads quickly in a town like Echo Valley when people know you're building something local. We've already sold three collars.
It's a start.
Tina lies sprawled on her velvet cushion by the door, deeply committed to doing absolutely nothing, happily lazing in the sun.
I'm designing a collar — pink leather, rose gold studs, part of the new line — when the bell above the door rings.
I glance up.
Rio stands in the doorway.
The afternoon sun catches behind him, broad shoulders filling the entrance, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He looks unfairly gorgeous standing there. I sometimes wonder if I'll ever get used to how hot he is.
Tina is instantly off her cushion and at his feet, wagging her tail.
He bends to scoop her into his arms, scratching behind her ears while she melts against his chest.
"So," he says softly, "are my girls ready to go?"
My stomach tightens.
I don't feel ready.
What's happening this afternoon is something I've thought about doing every single day for the last few months.
And avoided it every single day, too.
But it's time.
We've been sitting in the waiting room of Sacramento County Jail for several minutes after handing over our belongings to be searched, catalogued and whatever else they do to make sure we aren't here to help the inmates.
As if I ever would.
After the horrors not only uncovered with the trafficking case but also the drug charges that are underway against my father, I don't want him ever living anywhere else but here again.
An officer appears in the doorway.
"Delilah Cross?"
My pulse stumbles.
I stand. Rio grabs my hand. "You don't have to do this."
"I do. I need the closure."
He nods, knowingly. We've talked about this many times. I stare into his understanding eyes and sometimes can't believe how much we've opened up to each other.
We started as two people who kept everything behind locked doors, and now I tell him things I've never said out loud to anyone. Tina was always my best friend, but it's really wonderful having one that talks back.
Tina shifts on Rio's lap as I stand, watching me with those cloudy, patient eyes.
He squeezes my fingers just as I slip them out of his grasp. "We'll be here when you get out."
When I step into the visitation room, my father is already seated on one side of the metal table waiting for me.
In some ways, he looks the same.
Immaculately groomed beard. Controlled expression. That same terrifying stillness that used to silence entire rooms before he even opened his mouth.
But prison has stripped something from him, too.
Authority.
For the first time in my life, he looks contained.
But if there's one thing I've learned these past few months, it's that words can be just as violent as fists. Orders spoken quietly across tables like this can destroy lives long before anybody throws a punch. One text can bring down not one but two empires.
I sit opposite him, unsure what version of Marcus Cross I'm about to meet today. The toppled president? The narcissist? My father?
I haven't been ready to come here until now. My mind has been idling at a crossroad between feeling sure my father is a monster and wondering if somewhere, deep inside, there's any remorse.
Walking toward my dad now, I'm conscious of my posture and it takes all my effort to hold the intense eye contact he throws my way. I won't be intimidated.
I sit.
He leans back in his chair and cocks an eyebrow. "Well, it only took three months for you to visit. Rio keeping you busy?"
Of course, he knows about Rio and by now knows he's not the nobody he claimed to be.
His tone sharpens with intimidation. “Didn't take you for a traitor, Delilah."
My father's disapproval might have hurt me many years ago, but I'm immune now and it tells me my liberation is complete.
I tilt my head, my newfound confidence surging inside me. "How can I be a traitor if I was never on your side?"
A smug puff of air escapes his nose, and it smells like cigarettes.
"A liar then," he retorts.
"Did I lie?"
We gaze at each other, pointed words passing across the table without a sound.
The aftermath of the investigation played out both the actual truths and those that were omitted.
What the Feds know is that I ratted out my dad to Rio, whom I found in my search for someone, anyone, that might be able to help and that wouldn't be connected to the police.
GhostEye took on the case. They offered safe harbor during the investigation, but when my arranged fiancé, Luther, found me, I decided to return to Sacramento because I didn't want to bring trouble to Monarch Hills.
All true — ish.
I didn't even truly lie about the text I sent, not really.
I testified that Luther's intentions were based on what I saw of him. They were my opinion. I admitted that if he saw Luther in this light, he might not force me to get married. None of this makes me a criminal, and it probably garnered a lot of sympathy that I felt I didn’t deserve at the time, given my ulterior motives.
Never once did anyone ask if I thought my dad would kill Luther.
It's the first time in my life that what I thought didn't matter, but I was glad for it.
I stare at the man in front of me, the one with matching green eyes but a soul that is nothing like mine. It took him less than one sentence to make me know that I'm no longer at a crossroads.
My dad belongs in prison.
I'm glad I helped put him here.
Almost putting another nail in the coffin where I intend to bury my relationship with my dad, he stands.
"Looks like you forgot your apology at the door.
If you ever want to give me one, you know where to find me.
" Then, as if his words will convince me to say I'm sorry right now, he adds, "You'll always be my daughter. "
I stand, too.
There's no way I'm letting him look down on me anymore. "That's actually what I came to tell you."
His face twists with confusion. "What?"
"I'm not yours."
He stares.
"I'm changing my name, and that's what I came to tell you. The Cross line ends with you." I stare him down. "Marcus."
I do up a button on my jacket as if it costs me nothing, but inside, I'm shaking at the sight of his narrow, beady eyes and the fury within them.
Turning on my heel before he can say another word, I head toward the exit of the visitation room.
My legs are like jelly when I push through, and Rio stands immediately, scanning my every feature. Tina leaps down from his lap and winds around my ankles.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
I stare at him for a moment, not saying a word, holding back ones I've been pondering for weeks, keeping them in, chewing on them, and making sure they are true before I say them.
But it's decided.
I don't belong to my dad anymore, that much is true. But in the past three months, I've healed. I don't want Marcus Cross to be a scar on my heart. I don't want to belong to the wrong man, but that shouldn't stop me from belonging to the right one.
Rio isn't sure about my silence. He places both hands on my arms, concerned. “Prince–”
"I'm ready to be a Mendez."
Emotions come hard and fast across his face. First confusion. Then shock. Then a hesitant sort of happiness tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Do you mean with a ring?"
I shrug, suddenly feeling naked and exposed.
He places his fingers under my chin, tilting it up. “I’d better get you home then so I can ask properly."
My face twists. “Doesn't asking properly mean you need said ring?"
His gaze is full of love. "Princess, you should know me by now." He kisses my lips. "I'm always prepared."
Thank you for reading my story!