Chapter 42
FORTY-TWO
NAOMI
I ’ve spent my whole life trying to please the man at the end of this hallway. The little girl in me still quakes at the thought of disappointing him.
But I’m not her anymore.
Just me, finally comfortable in my own skin and clothes.
I square my shoulders and march down the plush carpet like I’m walking to the gallows. The evidence folder is slick with sweat from my palms, but I don’t let go. Can’t let go. Not yet.
Dad’s assistant doesn’t even look up as I pass. “Go right in, Ms. Smith. He’s waiting.”
Ms. Smith. The title grates like nails on a chalkboard. I’m not just David Smith’s daughter. Not anymore.
The door to his office looms like the gates of hell. Or maybe purgatory. Some in-between place where sins are laid bare and judgment is passed. That familiar scent of leather and power reaches me the second I step inside. Did they pump this smell through the vents? Eau de Capitalist Asshole?
Dad.
Sitting behind his massive mahogany desk like a king on his throne, the one that used to make me feel small. Now it just looks like overcompensation.
He looks up, face carefully blank. “Naomi. Please, sit.”
I don’t. “This won’t take long.”
He doesn’t argue, sinking back into his leather throne, hands steepled under his chin. “Let’s hear it.”
As if he doesn’t know. As if this is just another day, another meeting.
“I’m here to resign.” I place the resignation letter on his desk. “Effective immediately.”
The clock on the wall ticks, seconds stretching into what feels like minutes. I’m waiting for his reaction, the anger, the disappointment, any emotion.
But his mask stays firmly in place. Typical.
“I see.” He grabs the letter. “And may I ask why?”
As if it’s not obvious. “You know why.” I take a step forward, fighting the urge to fidget. To fold under his gaze like I always have. “I can’t work here anymore. With you. I’m opening a restaurant with Brandon.”
“A restaurant.” He tests the word like it’s poison. “With Brandon Milton.”
“Yes.”
“The same Brandon Milton who gave up the first time?”
“You don’t get to judge him.” I set the folder down slowly, deliberately. Let him feel the weight of it. Let him know this is real. “Not after what you’ve done.”
His gaze flicks to the documents and then to me. Measured. Assessing. “What is this?”
“The evidence against Lydia.” My voice doesn’t waver. “All of it.”
His face remains impassive, but something flickers in his eyes. Fear? Guilt? Hard to tell with a man who’s spent his life hiding behind a mask of authority.
“Did you read all of it?” he asks.
“No.”
“Who gave you these?”
“Does it matter?”
“I protected our family.” He gathers the scattered evidence. “Everything I’ve done was for you, Mykel and Anne.”
And just like that, I’m young again. Crouched behind that rusty bicycle, watching Mom fiddle with something on the car. The smell of gasoline burning my nose.
I blink, and I’m back.
Twenty-nine, standing tall, finally ready to lay down the weight I’ve carried for far too long. I think of all the nights Brandon held me as I cried, all the mornings he made me breakfast and didn’t push when I could barely eat. The way he never once made me feel weak or broken, even at my lowest.
“You were protecting yourself. I was alone for so long until Brandon showed me what real support looks like. You had years to share it,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Years to help me, to help Anne. To protect us. But you chose silence.”
He stands slowly, palms flat against the desk. “Naomi?—”
“I watched her do it, Dad.” The words taste like bile. “I was eight years old, hiding in that garage. I saw everything. And you… you let me carry that alone.”
Something cracks in his expression. Finally. A hairline fracture in that perfect facade.
“You were just a child,” he whispers. “I didn’t know.”
Part of me wants to comfort him, to be that good little daughter who always knew how to make Daddy smile.
“And now I’m not.” I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze head-on. “I’m choosing my own path. With Brandon. Without your approval or your money or your control.”
“What…” Dad taps on the folder. “What are you going to do with this?”
I thought knowing the truth would set me free. That if I could just prove what really happened that night, I could finally let go of the guilt eating me alive.
But it won’t bring back Anne’s mom, her brother or my mother. It won’t erase the years of pain and secrets. It’ll just cause more hurt, more damage.
“Nothing. I’m not here to blackmail you or expose you. I’m here to tell you I’m done. I’m done pretending. I’m done with the guilt. I’m done with you.” And I’m so fucking tired of hurting. “It’s your choice to make. Not mine. It never was mine.”
Dad sinks back into his chair, defeat etched in the new lines around his eyes. “Did he give you this?”
“Yes.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. “He’s good for you.”
“Don’t. Don’t try to?—”
“I’m not trying anything, Naomi.” He exhales slowly, shoulders sagging “For once, I just… see you.”
All these years fighting for his attention, and now…
“He makes you stronger. The way you hold yourself. The fire in your eyes.”
“I was always strong.” Brandon taught me that. “You just never noticed.”
“No,” he says softly. “I suppose I didn’t.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with decades of unspoken words. My fingers find the edge of my sleeve, twisting the fabric.
“The restaurant…” Dad clears his throat. “Will you need?—”
“We’ve got it covered.” I cut him off, chin lifted. “We don’t need your help.”
His nod is small, almost proud.
“Goodbye, Dad.”
“Naomi.” His voice stops me, hand on the doorknob. “The restaurant… when you open…”
I turn and watch him struggle with words that used to come so easily.
“Save me a table?”
I could crush him. Reject this peace offering like he’s rejected me a thousand times before.
Instead, I tilt my head just slightly. “If we have room.”
I leave, each step lighter, passing the spot where I used to sit as a child, doing homework and waiting for scraps of his attention.
That little girl is still there. But she’s not waiting by the door anymore. She’s not holding her breath for scraps of attention.
She’s walking away. And she’s proud. Of the woman I’ve become.
Messy and complicated and beautiful in its imperfection.
I’m free.
I grab my phone.
Anne: Thank you.
Naomi: I know you said to keep it in the past, but I thought you should at least have them.
Anne: Charles Milton seemed to be a good friend of my mom’s.
Naomi: Are you okay?
Anne: I am. And you?
I hesitate, because I’m not just writing it on autopilot to give the answer people want to hear instead of what I’m really feeling.
Naomi: I am, too.
I switch over to the chat with Brandon.
Naomi: Done.
Brandon: Come home to me, cupcake.
I’m not running from something. I’m running towards it. Towards Brandon, towards our future, towards the person I want to be.
I smile. A real, genuine smile that reaches my eyes.
I’ve made my choice. I choose us. I choose life.