“Your father is here.” Lauren blurted, and my heart nearly stopped.
The words made no sense. My father-I didn’t have a father. I had Darren and a sperm donor. A father was a foreign concept, something only lucky kids got to experience. I was not one of those lucky kids.
“Father?” I repeated, confusion coloring every syllable.
“Your father,” Lauren spat, anger flashing in her crystal-blue eyes. “The social worker managed to track him down.”
“The social worker.” I nodded, not fully processing what she was saying. I couldn’t get past the word “father.” It was inconceivable, impossible.
“Get down here,” Lauren snapped. “He wants to speak with you.”
Was that jealousy in her tone? Why would Lauren be jealous?
I trudged downstairs, ignoring the fact that I was still in my pajamas. My busted and swollen face didn’t even register. As a child, I had spent so many years imagining my father sweeping into my life and taking me away. We’d live in a big house together, and I’d finally be happy. I imagined him in so many different ways: strong and handsome, working as a secret agent or international spy. In my mind, his job was the reason he left my mom and never returned. My childish brain came up with all sorts of excuses for his behavior. It took me a long time to realize some people simply didn’t care. They didn’t care about their spouses, their family, or their children. In the end, you had to look out for yourself. Relying on anyone else was a recipe for heartbreak.
I spent too many nights crying for my father, begging the invisible man in the sky to bring him home.
My eyes locked instantly on the man standing in the living room-my father, my sperm donor. His eyes were just like mine: one so blue it looked almost white, the other a deep chocolate brown. His dark hair, cropped close to his head, was the same shade as mine. The similarities between us were striking. I used to love the fact that I looked like him, and now I hated it. I resisted the urge to cringe as his piercing gaze met mine. Did I look at people like that? With the same wide, startling gaze? The contrast of the deep brown and light blue was almost violent, making his eyes the center of attention.
My father-my sperm donor-was tall and broad, muscular for his age, and might even be called handsome. He wore a finely tailored suit, slate gray with blue accents. Full eyebrows, a wide nose, full lips, and long eyelashes. I saw myself in him, and my self-hate began to bubble to the surface.
“Sophia.” My name left his lips, surprise widening his eyes as he took in my battered face.
Some childish part of me wanted to run into his arms, to cry in joy that my father had finally come home.
Well, it was too late.
Too many nights spent crying in the dark, begging for him. Too many nights suffering at the hands of Darren and the cruel words of Lauren. He was too late for me, for my love, my admiration, my loyalty.
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice sounding distant and foreign, filled with hidden pain and torment.
“I’m your father.” The stranger cleared his throat, running a hand over the dark stubble on his chin. “The name’s Sebastian Drake.”
“Sebastian,” I nodded. Sebastian I could deal with. A man claiming to be my father was out of the question.
Sebastian paused, conflicting emotions flickering across his face. None of which I cared to recognize.
“Sophia, what happened to your face?” Sebastian’s voice was calm, but his eyes were alight with unspoken rage.
“I told you, I tried to ask her.” Lauren frowned, her voice pleading and almost whiny. “She won’t tell me.”
My eyes darted to Lauren, hardening at the sight of her practically cooing for his attention, even with Darren just feet away in the recliner.
“Sophia, tell me,” Sebastian insisted.
The anger that rushed through me snapped me from my stupor. No way in hell would I give this stranger what he wanted, no matter who he claimed to be. He was ruining my plans, plans I was determined to follow through on no matter what.
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” I snarled. “Not a single one of you.”
“Sophia-” Sebastian began, but I silenced him with a wave of my hand.
“You do not get to speak to me, Sebastian,” I snapped, taking pleasure in his widened eyes.
Pure, unfiltered rage coursed through me, built up over more than ten years. Every time I cried for him, every time I bragged about him to other kids-it all flooded my mind, fueling my anger. The world around me vibrated, and I realized I was literally shaking with rage. I tried to control the torrent of anger, but my vision tinged red, and I tasted something burnt in my mouth.
Sebastian hesitated, unmet expectations forming in his eyes. He seemed too accepting of my anger, which only pissed me off more.
A wall in my mind shattered, the bricks crumbling, the cement disintegrating. Rebuilding it was futile.
Something stirred in the back of my mind, awakening at my rage.
‘Finally,’ the voice in my head shouted gleefully.
I stepped toward Sebastian, my anger becoming too much, starting as a comforting fire and quickly growing out of control, consuming me. I wanted to end the source of my anger: Sebastian.
His eyes widened as I hobbled forward.
Two sets of knocks pounded on the thin screen door. A familiar voice pulled me from my rage, dousing the flames.
“Sophia.” Kieran’s deep voice called out. Ethan stood next to him, their dark and alluring eyes locked on me. The flames vanished. The brick wall in my head was still in shambles, the voice in my mind louder now, unable to be held back.
Sebastian’s expectant look faded but kept its interest as he looked me over.
I hadn’t realized it, but I was looking at the twins with both eyes. Somehow, I had managed to open my swollen eye. It no longer throbbed with pain, nor did my busted lip. My face felt fine, painless even.
Something had happened, whether I chose to accept it or not.