[Claire’s POV]
The drive to meet my father takes approximately thirty years, or at least that's how it feels when you're taking more detours than a conspiracy theorist's thought process.
Theo drives with focused precision, his easy humor replaced by professional alertness.
Every few minutes, he checks the mirrors, adjusts our route, doubles back on streets we've already traveled. Behind us, somewhere in the tangle of roads, Hugh follows in a separate car as a decoy.
I watch the city give way to suburbs, manicured lawns replacing concrete, then the countryside swallowing everything in green. The farther we get from the city, the tighter my chest feels.
Not from fear—from anticipation.
I haven't seen my father since dinner after the first kidnapping attempt weeks ago and it’s the longest he hasn't been near me. I should be nothing, I’m not a kid anymore, but still…
Also something tells me this conversation is going to be different from usual.
"You doing okay back there, princess?" Theo glances at me in the rearview mirror. "You've been quiet for about twenty minutes, which is either personal growth or concerning."
"Just thinking. Preparing mentally for the emotional gauntlet that is Richard Winters’ vulnerability." I manage a smile. "It's like watching a cat try to swim. Technically possible, deeply uncomfortable for everyone involved."
Theo snorts. "He loves you. Even I can see that, and I've met the man exactly twice. He's just terrible at showing it in ways that don't involve controlling your entire existence."
"The Winters family motto: Love Through Micromanagement."
Finally, we turn down a gravel road that winds through dense trees, and a small cottage emerges from the green like something out of a fairy tale.
Secluded, surrounded by forest, the kind of place you'd hide if you were a princess escaping a curse or a paranoid businessman with too many enemies. My father is waiting on the porch, and the sight of him makes my breath catch.
He looks older somehow—grayer, more worn, like the past weeks have aged him a decade. The moment I step out of the car, he's moving, crossing the distance with none of his usual measured restraint.
His arms wrap around me so tight I can barely breathe, and he's trembling. Actually trembling, his whole body shaking as he holds me against his chest.
I haven't seen him like this since I was a child—since the nightmares when he'd sit by my bed until I fell asleep.
"Claire." My name comes out broken. "My dear girl… You're okay. You're really okay."
"I'm really okay, Dad." I hug him back just as hard. "I'm right here, and I'm fine."
He pulls back eventually, his hands framing my face, studying me like he's cataloguing every feature. His eyes are wet, and the sight of my father crying hits me harder than any danger I've faced.
"Come inside." His voice is rough. "We need to talk. Really talk, for once."
The cottage interior is simple but warm, clearly a safehouse maintained for emergencies. Hugh and Theo remain outside, checking the perimeter, giving us space I didn't know I needed until I had it.
We sit on a worn sofa, knees almost touching, and for a long moment neither of us speaks. Then my father takes a breath that sounds like it costs him everything.
"I owe you an apology, Claire. Not just for recent events—for years. For being overbearing when you needed trust, for being controlling when you needed freedom, for treating you like a possession to be protected rather than a person to be trusted."
His voice catches and it does something painful to my chest, to my very soul.
"I told myself I was keeping you safe. That if I controlled everything, nothing could hurt you the way losing your mother hurt me… But all I did was push you away."
The confession lands like a physical thing between us.
I've waited years to hear these words. And now that they're here, I don't know what to do with them.
"I know you were trying to protect me. I've always known that, even when I was angry about it.” I manage, my own voice thick. “I understand now, at least partly, why you did it. But Dad, you can't make decisions for me and expect me to just accept them because you think you know better."
"I know." He reaches for my hand, squeezes it. "I'm learning. Slowly, painfully, but I'm learning."
He cups my face again, studying me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His eyes trace my features like he's memorizing them, comparing them to someone he lost long ago.
"You look so much like her…" he whispers, and his voice breaks. "Every day, you look more like your mother. The same bright hazel eyes, the same stubborn chin. She would have been so proud of the woman you're becoming."
For a moment, everything feels normal. Like we might actually be okay. Like years of our dysfunction might finally start healing.
I lean into his touch, letting myself feel something other than frustration toward him for the first time in years. Then I hear Hugh's phone ring outside, shattering the moment like glass.
I watch his expression through the window—the way it goes from alert to hard in a heartbeat. He exchanges a look with Theo, then moves toward the cottage door with purposeful strides.
"Something's wrong." Hugh's voice is clipped when he opens the front door. "Perimeter alarm triggered on the north side. Theo and I need to check it out."
My stomach drops. "What kind of alarm? Should we—"
"Stay inside with your father." He's already moving, but pauses to meet my eyes. "Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone except me or Theo. Understood?"
"Understood." The word tastes like ash.
The door closes, the lock clicks, and silence descends like a shroud. My father and I sit in the sudden quiet, both straining to hear anything beyond the cottage walls.
Minutes pass. Each second stretches into eternity. I count my heartbeats, try to convince myself that everything is fine, that Hugh and Theo are handling whatever triggered the alarm.
Then gunfire erupts outside.
"Claire, move!" My father is on his feet instantly, grabbing my arm, pushing me toward the back of the cottage. "There's a cellar door in the kitchen—hide there, don't come out no matter what you hear."
"Dad, I'm not leaving you—"
The front door splinters inward with a crash that makes me scream. Men in tactical gear pour through the opening, weapons raised, moving with coordinated precision that speaks to training and preparation.
My father doesn't hesitate. He launches himself at the first man through the door with a ferocity I've never seen from him—never imagined possible from my businessman father with his pressed suits and measured words.
He fights with skill that speaks to training I never knew he had, taking down one attacker, then engaging a second with brutal efficiency. But there are too many.
For every man he drops, two more push through the destroyed doorway, and I watch in horror as they overwhelm him.
"DAD!" The scream tears from my throat as someone grabs me from behind, arms like iron bands pinning me in place.
I thrash and kick and fight, but the grip is unbreakable. The last thing I see is my father's face—bloodied but still fighting, still reaching for me, still trying to protect his daughter even as they drag me away.
Then a cloth presses over my mouth and nose, something chemical and sweet flooding my senses.
The world goes dark.