POV Noelle
Twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four fucking hours since my world imploded, and I'm still horizontal like some Victorian heroine dying of consumption and wounded feelings.
Except Victorian heroines probably had better coping mechanisms than stress-eating leftover lo mein and replaying every moment of the past month to figure out where exactly I evolved from human being into "decent fuck with daddy issues."
My door's been locked since yesterday.
Maria's the only one allowed entry, and that's purely because someone needs to verify I haven't actually died from emotional devastation and MSG overdose.
Owen's tried everything.
Knocking. Pleading. That insufferable professional voice he deploys when managing crisis situations.
"Noelle, you weren't supposed to hear that conversation."
No shit, Sherlock. I also wasn't supposed to hear you calling me pathetic, but here we fucking are.
"It's complicated. Let me explain…"
Complicated? What's complicated about calling someone nothing after calling them your angel? Seems crystal clear to me.
"Please. Just let me in."
The desperation in his voice almost cracks my resolve. Almost.
Then I remember how he laughed—actually laughed—when he called me delusional, and the steel reinforces around my demolished heart.
I've been soul-crushed before.
Mom's death. Dad missed every important event and graduation. Warren reveals his sociopathic tendencies and tried to share me with his friend.
But this? This is different.
This is discovering that the first person who made you feel genuinely loved was just exceptionally skilled at his profession.
By hour twenty-five, wallowing loses its appeal. Time for action.
I call Dad.
"Sugar plum? What's wrong?"
Even through the phone, I detect concern he never manages to express face-to-face. "I don't want a bodyguard anymore."
Silence. Then: "What happened? Did Owen—"
"I just don't want one."
"Noelle, that's not negotiable. There are people attempting to—"
"I don't care."
"You don't care about survival?"
"I care about not being someone's charity case."
More silence. I can practically hear his brain calculating travel time from whatever business meeting currently outranks his daughter's psychological collapse.
"I'm coming home. We'll discuss this rationally."
Three hours later, Maria materializes in my doorway looking like she'd rather face armed insurgents. "Your father's in his office, mija."
Time to face the firing squad.
Dad's pacing behind his desk like a caged predator when I enter. He looks exhausted, which triggers approximately three seconds of guilt before I remember this clusterfuck is partially his fault anyway.
"I don't want Owen as my bodyguard anymore."
Dad stops pacing. "Why?"
"Just assign someone else."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
"Noelle—"
"Can you just do this one thing without requiring a doctoral dissertation?"
Dad's jaw ticks. "What happened between you two?"
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying. Nothing happened that matters."
"If nothing happened, then why—"
"I slept with him."
The confession explodes out like shrapnel from a grenade.
Dad goes completely motionless, and I watch his face cycle through confusion, comprehension, then pure homicidal rage.
"What the fuck?" His voice drops to that lethal whisper that usually precedes permanent disappearances. "I'm going to murder him."
"No, you're not."
"He exploited you."
"He didn't exploit anything."
"You're only twenty-two years old!"
"And you're never here!"
The words detonate before I can contain them.
"You want to know why I slept with him? Because he was the first person in years who made me feel like I existed. Because I have issues the size of fucking continental drift thanks to you vanishing every time reality gets complicated."
Dad looks like I just physically assaulted him. "Noelle—"
"You hire someone to protect me, but you can't be bothered to actually parent. So yeah, I fucked the help. Congratulations, your strategy worked flawlessly!"
"That's not fair."
"Fair?" I laugh, and it sounds slightly deranged. "You want to discuss fair? Fair would be having a father who doesn't treat parenthood like a side hustle!"
Dad's face drains of color. "I was trying to keep you safe…"
"You were trying to avoid dealing with anything genuine."
The silence stretches between us like a live wire. Dad looks older than I've ever seen him, and momentarily I almost feel guilty for unloading twenty-one years of resentment simultaneously.
Almost.
But then I remember all the missed birthdays, the unanswered calls, the way he treats fatherhood like an inconvenient board meeting he can reschedule indefinitely.
"You want to know what's really pathetic?" I continue, because apparently emotional self-destruction is my new hobby. "I actually thought Owen cared about me. Like, genuinely cared. Not because you were paying him, not because it was his job, but because I was worth caring about."
Dad's expression shifts to something that might be sympathy if he remembered how to express human emotions.
"But I was wrong. I'm just another spoiled rich girl with a trust fund. Another decent fuck who got confused about what professional service looks like."
Dad stares at me like I'm speaking in tongues.
That's when we hear the knock on the door. "Michael?"
Owen's voice carries through the heavy wood, and my traitorous heart does that stupid fluttering thing before I remember that he considers me pathetic.
"Come in," Dad calls, his voice promising extreme violence.
The door opens, and Owen steps inside looking like he's approaching his own execution. His eyes find mine immediately, and there's something desperate in his expression that makes my chest constrict.
"No need to fire me," Owen says, his voice steady despite the circumstances. "I quit."