Sayla
The meal was so good that I took a nap afterwards. The pain medication was a short-lived relief. My issue was what I discovered when I woke up.
Daddy Asher’s Rules
? Eat on time & take medicine.
? Daily physio and light exercise to encourage recovery.
? No bubble baths until the swelling comes down.
? Ask Daddy for help at any time, day or night.
N.B. If any rules are broken no punishments will be applicable unless you request them.
*Afternoon nap is not mandatory, but highly encouraged.
I stared at it for a very long time.
When my brain recalibrated, I stared at it some more. In fact, I waved it around in my hand like an aeroplane. Perhaps I was still asleep.
No. It was still in my hand.
Daddy Asher?
Flower. Flower. Flower. Flower. Heart.
Footnotes.
I scratched my head.
Gabriel was strong. The punch had to have caused some kind of neurological injury. That was the only reasonable explanation.
Daddy Asher’s rules?
Laminated.
Laminated meant permanence.
I placed it beside me on the bed and stared up at the soft blue canopy of the four poster bed.
My head went back to the laminated sheet.
It was all the same colour.
Either I was crazy, or the Kersey men were trying to drive me crazy. But the third option was the most likely—they were simply both crazy.
I lifted the rules again.
They were all basic healthcare and recovery guidelines. Sensible. Achievable. Nothing that wasn't common sense.
Except for the last one.
Ask Daddy for help at any time, day or night.
My lips began to tremble.
That was really—genuinely—kind of sweet.
I frowned.
It was also weird. He was my father-in-law.
Daddy.
He hadn’t pushed me away when I’d turned to him. He’d fed me my food with a steady hand and hadn’t made me feel small for needing it.
And I’d let him.
I’d just let him.
What was this?
What was I doing?
More importantly—what was he doing?
?
?
?
Neither of us mentioned the rules.
One day went by. Then another.
I followed the rules.
He was always there. In his office, the kitchen, the dining room, the garden—and every night at five-to-nine he came into my room to tuck me in. That hadn’t happened since I was ten years old. My parents would have continued but I’d wanted to be a grown up. Told them so very firmly.
I sighed at my younger self’s priorities.
“What’s wrong, lovey?” Mrs Davis asked without looking up from her pastry.
“Is Wilson a man slave?”
I couldn’t ask her about my Daddy issues.
The rolling pin stopped mid-roll.
“I mean—is he a butler, valet or manservant?”
Mrs Davis began to cackle. I watched her entire bosom shake with it, wave after wave of wholehearted laughter that filled the kitchen completely. I smiled at the sound. Then felt a quiet sadness settle underneath the smile.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard laughter like that. Couldn’t remember the last time I’d caused it.
It made me happy that I still could.
“You should ask him,” she chortled.
I shook my head.
“Nah. He’s a little rigid for me.”
“You’re a good egg. You can call me Lydia,” she said, still smiling.
Today was a good day. It felt as though I could breathe again. As though normal was something I might find my way back to.
“Thank you, Lydia,” I murmured.
She glanced up from her pastry. She didn’t flinch at my multicoloured eye. Didn’t look at it the way people did—with that particular cocktail of pity and discomfort that made me feel like the problem rather than the victim.
“You’re going to be fine, my dear. Mr Kersey will make sure of it.”
I swallowed.
I wished I had her confidence. Lydia did not know about the laminated sheet.
Sheet or no sheet.
I was safe here—for now.