Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
And the pictures of Daphne and Archer in the papers—it was the truth in black and white. Words don’t mean shit.
There’s the truth. And the truth is that no one ever picks me. My mom picked being dead over being with me, so big fucking shock that Daph picked Archer with his money and his fucking perfect face and—
I let out a roar in the cab of the truck as I drive back to the castle. I want to destroy something. I want to rip the whole fucking world apart.
I close my eyes as rage burns in my brain, making me feel like I’m going to self-combust.
Daphne
I sit on the wood floor of my empty townhouse. My nipples ache. I took out the piercings...because why bother? I’m not Logan’s anymore.
I’m not anyone’s.
Sacrifice was supposed to bring reward. Why couldn’t he trust me? I… I love him. Why isn’t that enough? I love him so much, it’s ripping my heart out.
Maybe it was better back when I was asleep. Back when I didn’t know what it felt like to live life in color. When the world was black-and-white and I woke up and went through the motions each day and then went to sleep again and year passed upon year until I eventually moldered away and went back to the earth to become fertilizer for my beloved roses. Circle of fucking life, right? Why did I think I got to be special, but no, I’ve got to be one of the rare few with an epic love of a lifetime. That’s just a fairytale.
My cell phone rings and I answer it on autopilot. I plugged it in as soon as I got here.
“Daphne?” Rachel’s voice is half panic, half hopeful.
I hang up and stare at my phone like it’s something vile. WTF is she thinking, calling me? After what she did?
My phone buzzes. She’s sent me a text.
Rachel: Daphne, I’m sorry. I can explain.
There’s little dots that tell me she’s still typing, but I furiously type faster.
Me: You have a lot of nerve, texting me rn.
The ellipses disappear.
Me: Adam told me what you did.
And now I just feel tired.
Me: Why? What did I do to you? I thought we were friends?
Rachel: …
Me: Don’t bother explaining. I’m blocking this number.
Rachel: Wait! It’s about your dad—
I snatch up the phone and redial her. My face is wet.
“What about my dad?” I ask before she can greet me. I want no niceties from her. I steel myself for more lies.
“Oh, thank gods. Daphne, he’s really, really sick.”
“What?” The last time I talked to him… was a while ago. He sounded weak but I thought everything was fine.
“You have to go. Now. The truth is, he’s in hospice care.”
“Hospice?” I cry, scrambling to my feet. “But that’s… That’s end-of-life care. Are you just trying to fuck with me again? Why are you calling, telling me this and not his nurse?” After all that you’ve done!
“I’m not proud of the way things turned out. Look, I can explain,” her voice drops to a whisper. “Just...not now. There’s no time. Go, Daphne. If you go now, you might make it in time.”
My heart jumps to my throat.
I’m already out the door, flying down the stairs. “Taxi!” I shout. A yellow Chariot wrenches out of traffic to glide to the curb.
“Make it in time for what?” I ask Rachel, but she’s quiet as I tumble into the cab’s backseat and give directions to the driver. When I look down at my phone, she’s hung up, but a new text has come through.
Rachel: In time to say goodbye.
Ten minutes later, I’m in a show down with the stone-faced nurse blocking the entrance to my dad’s room.
“He’s sleeping,” she whispers harshly.
“It’s the middle of the day. How long has he been out?”
The nurse’s gaze flits away. I clench my fist so I don’t grab the front of her shirt and shake her until she tells me what the hell is going on.
Instead, I steel my voice. “How long?”
“This is against protocol,” the nurse says to the wall. She’s scared of something and I don’t understand. “Your father is very ill.”
“How ill?” I force myself to sound calm. “Another stroke?”
The nurse finally meets my gaze a second before dropping hers and nibbling on her lip. “Yes. Followed by acute encephalopathy.”
The scientist part of my brain scrambles to translate. My voice hitches as I ask, “How bad is it?”
“We started hospice procedures two days ago.”
“What?” I whisper-shout. Rachel was right. The realization blasts the hairs on my arm, makes them rise. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”
“We had our orders.”
“What orders? From who?” my voice jumps an octave and I take a breath trying to calm myself down. “I hired you. I’m his daughter.”
The nurse gives a little whimper, and I realize I’ve backed her into the wall. “Your fiancé,” she says desperately. “He told us you had a breakdown and were hospitalized—”