The way he’d said, “You and your son in the hospital room.”
This wasn’t a misunderstanding. This was the reveal.
This was who Tristan Blackwood truly was.
I picked up my phone, my hands trembling, not with weakness, but with a focused white hot rage. I didn’t call my best friend, Sophie.
She would offer sympathy. And right now, sympathy would dilute the fury I needed to survive this.
I needed action. I needed a scalpel, not a band-aid.
I scrolled past her name, past my mother’s, and found the number labeled dad direct line. It was a number that bypassed all assistance, all buffers.
It rang only on the phone he kept within arms reach 24 hours of the day. It was picked up on the second ring.
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