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He doesn’t argue, sinking back into his leather throne, hands steepled under his chin. “Let’s hear it.”
As if he doesn’t know. As if this is just another day, another meeting.
“I’m here to resign.” I place the resignation letter on his desk. “Effective immediately.”
The clock on the wall ticks, seconds stretching into what feels like minutes. I’m waiting for his reaction, the anger, the disappointment, any emotion.
But his mask stays firmly in place. Typical.
“I see.” He grabs the letter. “And may I ask why?”
As if it’s not obvious. “You know why.” I take a step forward, fighting the urge to fidget. To fold under his gaze like I always have. “I can’t work here anymore. With you. I’m opening a restaurant with Brandon.”
“A restaurant.” He tests the word like it’s poison. “With Brandon Milton.”
“Yes.”
“The same Brandon Milton who gave up the first time?”
“You don’t get to judge him.” I set the folder down slowly, deliberately. Let him feel the weight of it. Let him know this is real. “Not after what you’ve done.”
His gaze flicks to the documents and then to me. Measured. Assessing. “What is this?”
“The evidence against Lydia.” My voice doesn’t waver. “All of it.”
His face remains impassive, but something flickers in his eyes. Fear? Guilt? Hard to tell with a man who’s spent his life hiding behind a mask of authority.
“Did you readallof it?” he asks.
“No.”
“Who gave you these?”
“Does it matter?”
“I protected our family.” He gathers the scattered evidence. “Everything I’ve done was for you, Mykel and Anne.”
And just like that, I’m young again. Crouched behind that rusty bicycle, watching Mom fiddle with something on the car. The smell of gasoline burning my nose.
I blink, and I’m back.
Twenty-nine, standing tall, finally ready to lay down the weight I’ve carried for far too long. I think of all the nights Brandon held me as I cried, all the mornings he made me breakfast and didn’t push when I could barely eat. The way he never once made me feel weak or broken, even at my lowest.
“You were protecting yourself. I was alone for so long until Brandon showed me what real support looks like. You had years to share it,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Years to help me, to help Anne. To protect us. But you chose silence.”
He stands slowly, palms flat against the desk. “Naomi?—”
“I watched her do it, Dad.” The words taste like bile. “I was eight years old, hiding in that garage. I saw everything. And you… you let me carry that alone.”
Something cracks in his expression. Finally. A hairline fracture in that perfect facade.
“You were just a child,” he whispers. “I didn’t know.”
Part of me wants to comfort him, to be that good little daughter who always knew how to make Daddy smile.
“And now I’m not.” I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze head-on. “I’m choosing my own path. With Brandon. Without your approval or your money or your control.”
“What…” Dad taps on the folder. “What are you going to do with this?”