Chapter 8 Vance
VANCE
First thing the next morning, Lila and I called the police. They agreed to come over to talk to us, but weren’t much help.
“Without a direct threat or witnessed trespassing, there’s not much we can do. These were taken from the street—public property.”
“So we just wait until something worse happens?” Lila had asked.
The female officer had handed her a card. “Document everything. If it escalates, call immediately.”
An hour later, I left to pick up Margot.
I didn’t want to leave Lila and Mia but they assured me they were fine, sending me out the door with hugs.
On my way out of town, I stopped first to pick up my mother.
She was ready and waiting, dressed in soft linen pants and a cardigan, her silver hair styled, her demeanor calm and reassuring.
“You okay?” she asked as we merged onto the highway.
“No.”
“That’s honest.” She patted my knee. “But you will be. Once you see her.”
I wasn’t so sure. Last night’s phone call kept replaying in my mind. Margot’s flat, disinterested voice. The way she’d asked if she could go, like talking to me was a chore.
“What if she refuses to come with us?” I asked.
“She’ll have to. Which she knows, and it probably hurts really bad.” Mama adjusted her seatbelt. “We have to be strong. She’s our girl. Soon enough, she’ll understand what that means.”
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, driving through Cliffside Bay and then headed north to the address Nicole had given me. We drove for fifteen more miles to a new community built on a golf course overlooking the ocean. I punched in the code she’d texted me, and the ornate iron gates swung open.
“Well,” Mama said dryly. “Look how well she’s done for herself.”
The houses were massive, with more glass than walls, manicured lawns that looked like they’d never seen a child play on them, three-car garages, and pools that sparkled in the late morning sun.
Nicole’s house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. All sharp angles and floor-to-ceiling windows, painted in shades of white and gray. A Mercedes and a Porsche sat in the driveway. Everything about it screamed look how successful we are.
I pulled up behind the Porsche and killed the engine.
“Ready?” Mama asked.
“I’m trying not to throw up.”
“That’s my boy.”
Nicole opened the door before we even reached the stone walkway.
She looked exactly like her Instagram photos—maybe better.
Blonde hair fell in perfect beach waves that must have taken an hour to achieve, skin tanned to a golden bronze that probably came from a bottle, not the sun.
Slender and toned in white jeans and a silk tank that showed off a chest that definitely hadn’t been there during our marriage.
Her smile was wide and warm—but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Vance, you’re right on time. Come in, come in.” She stepped back, gesturing as if we were guests at a cocktail party instead of a father reclaiming the daughter she’d kept from him for six years. “And you’ve brought your mama. How sweet.” She said “mama” as though I were five years old.
“Hello, Nicole,” Mom said, her tone polite but cool.
We stepped into a foyer of white marble and modern art. Everything was pristine—sterile. A museum, not a home. The air smelled of citrus cleaner, not crayons or cookies. No family photos. No abandoned shoes by the front door. No sign a ten-year-old lived here at all.
“Derek’s just finishing up a call,” Nicole said, leading us into a living room of white furniture and glass tables. “He’ll be out in a minute. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
“We’re fine,” I said.
She perched on the edge of a chair, crossing her legs. “This is so hard for me,” she murmured, her voice dropping into a practiced tremor. “But I know it’s best for Margot. She needs her father right now.”
I bit back the response I wanted to give. She’s always needed her father. You just finally ran out of use for her.
“Where is she?” I asked instead.
“Packing. I told her to take her time saying goodbye to her room.” Nicole picked at her manicure. “I’ll miss her so much. The house will feel terribly empty without her.”
Her words were polished, but her eyes stayed dry. Always the performer.
From the back of the house came footsteps.
A tall man, silver-haired, probably mid-sixties, appeared, dressed in golf clothes with an expensive watch glinting in the sunshine.
Derek, presumably. He glanced at us with mild interest, as if we were furniture that had been delivered. “Nicole, we have a tee time at one.”
“I know, babe. This won’t take long.” She stood, smoothing her jeans. “Let me get Margot.” She disappeared down the hallway, leaving us with Derek.
“So you’re the ex-husband,” he said, not bothering to introduce himself. “Nicole said you finally decided to step up.”
Mama placed her hand on my arm.
“I’m her father,” I said evenly, somehow. Because I wanted to punch this idiot right in the face. “I’ve been trying to be part of her life for six years.”
“Hmm.” Derek pulled out his phone, already disinterested. “Well, good luck with that. Kids are a handful. Been there, done that.”
I stared at the man who was supposed to have been around my child, wondering how anyone could radiate so much smug indifference and still sleep at night.
Before I could respond, Nicole reappeared with Margot trailing behind her.
The world tilted.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but stare at this child.
This stranger. Who was supposed to be my daughter.
She was so much bigger. Taller. The chubby toddler cheeks gone, replaced by the angular features of a girl on the edge of adolescence.
She looked like Nicole, blonde and willowy, stunning blue eyes.
As a baby, Margot’s eyes had followed me wherever I went. I had been her safe place. Her Papa.
But now those eyes stayed fixed on the floor.
She wore jeans and a purple hoodie, clutching a small rolling suitcase in one hand and a worn stuffed bear in the other.
Not Johnny—the gray rabbit my mother had sent her for her first Christmas.
She’d carried him everywhere and called him “Zhonny” because she couldn’t pronounce the J yet.
Now she held a different toy. One I’d never seen. From a life I didn’t know.
The bear’s fur was matted, its head lolling to one side, like it had been held too tightly for too long.
My chest ached. Six years. I’d missed six years.
The truth washed over me in sickening waves.
She’d learned to read without me. Lost teeth.
Started school. Made friends. Had birthdays and Christmases and nightmares and scraped knees and all the thousand small moments that make up a childhood. I hadn’t been there for any of it.
My throat burned. My chest felt crushed from the inside. “Margot,” I managed, my voice cracking on her name. “You’re so grown up.”
She flinched. Actually flinched, as if I’d struck her.
The pain of watching my own daughter recoil from me was worse than anything Nicole had ever done. Worse than the divorce. Worse than losing custody. Worse than six years of silence.
I crouched to her level. “Mon c?ur, it’s so good to see you.” I’d called her that since she was a baby. She’d called me Papa.
Nothing. She wouldn’t even look at me.
I wanted to pull her into my arms, breathe in the scent of her hair, feel the weight of her against my chest the way I used to.
But I stayed frozen, terrified that, if I moved, she’d run.
A single strand of her hair had fallen across her cheek, and every instinct in me screamed to brush it back—but I didn’t dare.
And then, a crazy, wayward thought: What happened to that rabbit?
As if the answer might somehow fix everything.
“Margot, honey, say hello to your father,” Nicole said brightly, as if she were introducing us at a dinner party.
Margot didn’t look up.
“And this is your grandmother,” Nicole continued. “Vance’s mother. Isn’t that nice she was able to come too?”
Still nothing.
Nicole’s smile tightened. “Margot. Don’t be rude.”
“Hi,” Margot whispered, so quietly I barely heard it.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Mama said gently. “It’s good to see you again. I’ve missed you very much.”
Margot looked up. “You’ve seen me before?”
“Yes, many times. I came to Paris and stayed with you.”
“I don’t remember Paris,” Margot said. “Or you.”
The words cut through me, like a dull knife. She remembered nothing from her old life. Her life with me.
“All right, time to get going.” Nicole knelt down, pulling Margot into a hug that looked more like a photo op than affection. “Mommy’s going to miss you so much. But you’re going to have such a good time with your dad. Remember what we talked about?”
Margot nodded, her small shoulders tense.
“Be good. Don’t make trouble.” Nicole stood, brushing off her jeans. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She grabbed a manila folder from the side table. “Her school records. Immunization forms. That sort of thing. She’s up to date on everything.”
“Thank you,” I managed.
“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart,” Nicole said to Margot.
“When?” Margot asked, peeking up through her lashes.
Nicole’s voice hardened—the way I remembered it. “I told you, I’m not sure. I have to check with Derek about our travel schedule. I told you that five times already.”
“We’ll work it out,” I said gently. “Once you’re settled with me, okay?”
Margot’s gaze dropped again. She shrugged, as if none of it mattered.
“Well.” Nicole glanced at Derek, who was still on his phone. “I guess that’s everything. You have my number if you need anything.”
Your blocked number that you never answer, I thought but didn’t say.
“We should get going,” Mama said, sensing my tension. “It’s lunchtime. Are you hungry, Margot?”
Another shrug.
“Of course.” Nicole’s smile was brilliant and completely empty. “Margot, give me one more hug.”
Margot stepped forward mechanically, let Nicole squeeze her briefly, then stepped back.