Chapter Forty-Four Joshua
Chapter Forty-Four
Joshua
The engine roared under my grip, the kind of sound that rattled your bones when you were too far gone to care.
The city blurred past me, Christmas lights, kids crossing, red lights turning green, and all I could see was that fucking headline burned into my brain.
John Lockhart Donates to Reopen The Sofia Home for Children.
Sofia.
Her name.
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The phone was pressed between my shoulder and ear, and Aunt Claire’s voice filled the car, trying to sound calm even though she knew me too well.
“Joshua, slow down—”
“I’m not slowing down,” I bit out. “Tell me you didn’t agree to this. Tell me you didn’t let that bastard—”
“Joshua.” She sighed, that steady tone she always used when I was a kid and too angry to breathe. “He’s already here. Cameras. Reporters. Donations. It’s happening, sweetheart.”
“Bullshit.”
My hand slammed against the steering wheel. The car swerved slightly before I corrected it. “He’s using her name to clean his image. My mother’s name. He doesn’t get to touch her legacy. He didn’t even come to the funeral.”
“Joshua, listen to me—”
“I own that place!” I snapped. “You manage it; I signed it to you because you actually give a damn, but I own it. I don’t need his stupid money or his fake generosity.”
There was a pause. I could hear her moving, probably stepping away from the press noise. “He’s here for five minutes of cameras, and then he’ll be gone. Don’t make a scene. You’ll only make it worse.”
“Make it worse?” I laughed under my breath, but it came out dark, hollow. “He already did. He made it worse the second he opened his mouth.”
“Joshua—”
“I’m almost there.”
“Joshua, don’t—”
I hung up.
The phone clattered onto the passenger seat, and I gripped the wheel tighter, the leather biting into my palms.
Outside, the sign for The Sofia Home for Children came into view.
Mom’s name in gold letters.
And right under it, the man who’d killed everything she ever was, posing for pictures with a smile.
My blood boiled.
Not today.
Not in her name.
Not while I’m still breathing.
The tyres screeched as I pulled up to the kerb, gravel scattering under the weight of the car. I didn’t even bother parking straight, just killed the engine and shoved the door open.
The slam echoed down the street, sharp enough to make a few reporters turn their heads. Cameras clicked, voices dropped.
Good. Let them watch.
I didn’t care. Not one damn bit.
I adjusted my suit jacket and strode forward, every step punching into the concrete, my jaw tight enough to crack.
Ahead, I saw him—John Lockhart—smiling for the cameras as if he’d just saved the world. Flashing his perfect teeth. Arm around some city official like he had the fucking right after fifteen years of not giving a fuck.
“Joshua,” one of the reporters called, recognition sparking. “Joshua Lockhart! You’re here too. Are you joining your father today?”
Father.
I almost laughed.
John turned at the sound of my name, and the fake grin froze when he saw me. His hand dropped from the politician’s shoulder as if it burned.
“Joshua,” he said carefully, too calmly, like we were business partners meeting for brunch. “You made it.”
I stopped a few feet from him, staring at the cameras pointed at us, then back at him.
“Of course I did,” I muttered, my voice low, controlled, dangerous. “Wouldn’t want to miss your performance.”
John’s jaw twitched. He took a step closer, lowering his tone so only I could hear. “This isn’t the place.”
I tilted my head, forcing a smirk I didn’t feel. “No? You made her legacy your stage. Seems fitting I make your show the ending act.”
And before he could respond, I took another step forward, enough for the cameras to catch both of us in the same frame.
Lockhart versus Lockhart.
Father versus son.
The man who built an empire and the boy who refused to inherit his rot.
Let them see it.
Let the world see it.
The cameras had backed off; the PR smiles fading into silence. Someone must’ve waved them away, because it was just us now, me and him, the man who can wear a black tie to perform but not to my mother’s funeral.
He looked older than I remembered. Not weaker, just… worn. Like guilt had been eating him alive.
Good.
John adjusted his cufflinks and sighed, the sound scraping like gravel. “I didn’t come here to fight, Joshua. I came to make things right.”
I let out a sharp laugh that wasn’t even close to humour. “Right. Fifteen years too late.”
He winced. For a second, I saw something flicker in his eyes, grief, maybe, or something he wanted me to see as grief, but I didn’t buy it.
Couldn’t.
“She loved this place,” he said quietly, looking up at the building.
“Your mother. She’d come here every weekend, even after long days.
Said it reminded her of what love was supposed to look like.
” His voice cracked, barely, before he steadied it.
“When I saw it shut down, it felt like losing her all over again. So I donated. I wanted it open again. I wanted…”
He trailed off.
I folded my arms. “You wanted to look good in front of the press. Don’t make it sound noble.”
“That’s not fair, Joshua.”
“Fair?” My eyes narrowed. “You think fair is watching her body being taken away while you’re too busy signing contracts? Fair is you pretending to be a father when you couldn’t even look at her in a coffin?”
His face fell. The mask cracked.
He swallowed hard. “I made mistakes. I won’t deny that. But you don’t understand. I built the company for you. Everything I have, everything I’ve built, it was so you could have a future. A wife, children, something to pass on.”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “A future built on what? Lies? Money? You think I care about your empire?”
“I wanted you to focus, Joshua!” he said suddenly, frustration cutting through the calm. “Not waste time chasing ghosts in an orphanage. I wanted you to build something that lasts, something she would’ve been proud of!”
“Don’t you dare use her pride as your excuse,” I hissed.
We stood there, the air thick enough to choke on. The orphanage’s front doors creaked as Aunt Claire peeked out, worried. He looked at me again, truly looked, and for a brief, unwanted moment, I saw the father I’d once wanted. The one who should’ve been there.
But no.
That man died the same day she did.
I stepped back, voice low. “You want to make it right? You can’t. You had your chance.”
And before he could speak again, I turned and walked away.
He could donate a million times, plaster her name on every wall in this city; it wouldn’t matter. He killed the only home I ever had.
The words between us hung in the air, heavy, sharp, unfinished. Every nerve in my body buzzed with rage. I could feel reporters gathering again, sensing the tension like blood in the water.
I looked at him one last time, over my shoulder.
“I don’t care how much money you pour into this place,” I said, letting every syllable land like a hit. “I don’t care what story the media prints tomorrow. Joshua Lockhart will never allow John Lockhart to be the reason this orphanage opens its doors again.”
Gasps. Murmurs. The PR team froze mid-step.
I kept going, voice shaking but firm. “This place was hers. Sofia Lockhart built it with her hands, her heart, and her time, not with his damn money. So if this place ever breathes again, it’ll be because of her. Because of me. But not him. Never him.”
For a split second, I saw it… his face fell, that flash of genuine regret breaking through his polished facade.
Good.
Let it burn.
I looked away before he could answer. The photographers called my name, shouting questions, lights flashing—
“Joshua! Are you saying you’ll take legal action?”
“Are you rejecting your father’s donation?”
“Will you reopen it yourself?”
I didn’t look back.
The only sound left behind was the echo of my footsteps and the sharp click of cameras trying to capture a story that they’d never understand.
Because the real story wasn’t about a donation.
It was about a boy who lost his mother and the man who dared to use her name to cleanse his sins. And I swore, as I shoved open my car door and slammed it shut again, that I’d rather watch the whole building crumble to dust than let John Lockhart be the reason it stood.
—
The doors swung open to the quiet hum of my penthouse.
The warmth hit first: the smell of food, faint traces of her perfume, and the soft sound of the TV playing something light in the background.
And then I spotted her curled up on the couch, Honey sprawled across her lap like always. Her fingers moved gently through the kitten’s fur, slow and careful, as if she were afraid she’d break something so small.
Then she looked up.
Her eyes met mine, wide and searching, and before I could say a word, she stood. Still holding the kitten to her chest, still careful.
For a second, I forgot to breathe.
Her hair was slightly messy from sitting too long, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, and the bracelet I’d given her glinted under the light when she moved.
Honey meowed softly, a sound that filled the silence between us.
“You’re back,” she said in that soft tone, as if she’d been waiting for me and, maybe I’m delusional… a bit worried.
I nodded, running a hand down my face. My suit jacket felt too tight, as if it were choking me, as if the entire day were still clinging to my skin.
And she noticed, of course she noticed.
Without asking, she placed Honey on the couch, walked up to me, and—God—she brushed the lapel of my suit. Just lightly. Dusting off invisible dirt, eyes flicking to mine for a brief second before dropping again.
Her fingers grazed the edge of my tie, and I realised my hands were still shaking.
“Y-you look—” she started, tilting her head a bit while analysing my face, my expression, “—mad. But also sad.”
I almost laughed.
Trust her to sum me up in six words.
“Both,” I muttered, voice rough. “It’s complicated.”
She hesitated before speaking again.
“Your dad?”
I blinked. “How—”
She tilted her phone, showing a news alert on the screen. John Lockhart donates to reopen late wife’s orphanage. There were photos of me, of course. Me walking away. Me glaring. Headlines like Family Feud at Charity Event.
I exhaled sharply. “Yeah. Him.”
She studied my face for a long moment—too long—and then she reached out, small fingers brushing against my wrist. Just one touch. And I swear, it felt like the whole day collapsed right there.
I didn’t even mean to, but I leaned into it. Her touch. Her silence. Her quiet presence.
She didn’t ask anything else.
Just took Honey back into her arms, sitting back down where she originally was before. And I just stood there for a while, pretending to look for something to say, pretending not to notice how my pulse eased the longer she sat there.
She wasn’t doing anything special.
Just… existing.
And somehow, that was enough to make it quiet again.
I finally moved closer, lowering myself onto the other end of the couch. She glanced at me, unsure whether she should say something, but didn’t. The kitten purred between us, its small, steady breaths louder than the air conditioning.
I cleared my throat. “Hey.”
She looked up immediately. I rubbed the back of my neck, forcing the words out before I chickened out.
“Tomorrow,” I said quietly. “New Year’s Eve.” Her brows drew together, waiting. I took a breath. “You should come over.”
She tilted her head.
“For dinner,” I added quickly. “Stay until midnight. Watch the fireworks from the balcony, maybe. It’s a nice view up here.”
She blinked. Once. Twice. Then tilted her head as if to ask why?
I looked down at my hands. My knuckles were still tense, the veins in my wrist faintly raised. I flexed them once before answering.
“Because…” I stopped. It sounded pathetic in my head, but I said it anyway. “Because it’s too loud up here.” I tapped my temple lightly. “Always is. And when it gets that loud, I—” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “I just need to quiet it down.”
Her lips parted slightly.
“It’s not pity,” I added quickly, eyes locking on hers. “I’m not asking because I feel sorry for myself. I just…I don’t want to be alone when the year changes. Not this one.”
For a long moment, she didn’t respond.
Just sat there, hugging Honey closer, gaze soft but unreadable.
Then she nodded. Slowly.
And something in my chest loosened, like air finally filling lungs that had been crushed for years.
“Alright,” I said quietly, trying not to sound too relieved. “Dinner. Fireworks. You, me, and the furball.”
She smiled barely, but it was there. Small. Real.
I could live off that for the rest of the year.
She then stood up, placing Honey in my arm and walked towards the door again, with me absentmindedly following behind.
Aurora turned around to face me, leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the kitten’s head.
“Bye, Honey,” she whispered, barely audible, but I caught it. Her voice was still shaky from her mutism, soft and uncertain, but hearing it at all… God. It did something to me every single time.
She looked up at me next. “Tomorrow,” she whispered.
I nodded once because my throat felt too tight to say anything. She turned and left, and I stood there by the door, watching the elevator doors slide shut around her.
The second she disappeared, Honey meowed as if it already missed her.
“Yeah,” I muttered, letting out a dry laugh and scratching the kitten’s head. “Lucky girl, huh?”
Honey blinked up at me with those wide eyes, the same innocence as hers.
“You get to have her kisses,” I murmured, half-smiling. “You get to curl up against her chest and listen to her heartbeat.”
The kitten purred louder, curling into my hand as if it understood.
“Lucky,” I said again, quieter this time.
Because she kissed the cat goodbye.
Not me.
And I stood there, in the quiet glow of my penthouse, holding the warm little creature she loved, the closest thing I’d ever get to feeling her again before tomorrow came.