Page 115 of The Colour of Revenge

But no amount of planning prepares me for this.

My palms are clammy, and I wipe them on my jeans for the hundredth time.

Just call him.

It was easy enough to find his number. Men like him—monsters like him—don't hide. They flaunt their wealth and their influence. Their names are etched into every dirty deal in the city.

Nate's plan is logical. Practical. Brutally effective.

But the thought of pretending to forgive him? Of forcing warmth into my voice for the man who derailed my entire existence?

It makes me sick.

What do I even say?

Hi, Dad. Remember how you sold me when I was thirteen? No hard feelings—let’s grab dinner and catch up.

The idea tastes bitter even in my imagination.

“Just do it,” I mutter to myself.

Nate watches me from across the room, arms folded, expression unreadable. "You don't have to do this."

But I do.

For me.

For every year he took from me.

I click call and the dial tone kicks in. My heart races and my stomach flutters with butterflies as I wait.

Each second stretches, thick and suffocating.

“Hello, this is Dominic Beckett speaking.”

My throat clogs as no words come out as his voice cuts through me. It’s barely changed, perhaps a little more mature.

I can't breathe. My throat tightens, strangling my words.

Say something.

“Hello?” he repeats, irritation creeping in.

“Dad?” I force the word out, my voice small and nervy.

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the phone. “Naomi?”

The name slams into me, a fist to the ribs. I hate that name.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat. "It's me."

A pause.

Then, nothing. No warmth. No disbelief. Just cold detachment.

“What’s wrong?” His no-nonsense tone grates on my nerves, stoking the embers of my barely contained rage.

No‘Hello, long-lost daughter I haven’t seen in fifteen years,’or‘Hey, how’s life after I auctioned off your childhood to a rapist paedophile?’Nope. Just a gruff‘What’s wrong?’Like I'm an inconvenient problem he never expected to resurface.