a P

ing through my chest. It felt like my ribs were caving in, each breath a shallow, desperate attempt to h

amiliar companion to my suffering. I closed my eyes, waiting for the dulling haze to settle. It was a fragile peace, a temporary t

swam. The room spun. I had to continue. There was still so

Always Cayla. Her voice, light and melodious, intertwine

descended. In the kitchen, Cayla was flipping pancakes, her movements graceful. Denver sat at the coun

e best pancakes ever!" he

he glanced up then, saw me. Her smile faltered for a second, then snapped back into

repeated, th

"Morning," he mumbled, his e

k later? The one with the swings?

va is feeling. She looks a little pale this morning, don't you thin

a actually plays with me." The words were a dagger, sharp and preci

g this company. Building his future. I had missed school plays, parent-te

t would shatter at any moment. "Go ahead, Denver.

. They walked away, their backs to me, leaving me alone in the vas

s turned white as I gripped it, my body trembling. Every nerve ending was on fire.

aper. He wore his usual tweed jacket, looking every inch the dis

up. "You look... rested." It was le

thing was shallow. "Don," I began, my voice steady despite the seismi

noyance in his eyes. "Again, Alva? What n

s. I want to amend it. I want to waive a

stling in his hand. "What? Alv

ause. All my personal assets, the art collection,

Rodin? The first edition Shakespeare? Alva, yo

e same words I used with Cayla.

, Alva? What game are you playing? Are you trying to prove somethin

the chair. Every fiber of my being ached. "Tired of fi

ted with the newspaper. He cleared his throat. "I saw the file, Alva. The one on your desk. The one about the forged

ible to a damsel in distress." I paused, letting the words hang in the air. "I know that you two have been plannin

at the table, his face

pright. "I was too rigid. Too controlling. Too busy building. I should have been more like Cayla. Sweet. Gen

g at me, his eyes wide with a mix

burst. "My controlling stake in Bartlett & Ass

verything?" His voice rose in disbelief, then in rage. "She's an artist!

ps. "I'm not mad, Don. I'm just... letting go. I w