Adison's POV
Dad didn't let me pack properly. Fifteen minutes. That's all I got. Threw things into my suitcase while he stood in the doorway watching like I might bolt any second.
Maybe I should have. Maybe that would've been the brave choice.
Instead I packed like a robot. Clothes. Toiletries. The astronomy book Jake had bought me last week—that one hurt to touch. Everything else stayed. My work boots. The flannel shirts I'd claimed as mine. The life I'd been building.
Jake didn't come out. Tommy watched from the barn, face stricken, but didn't intervene. Smart kid. Knew better than to get between Richard Ward and something he'd decided to take.
The drive to the airport was a masterclass in parental disappointment.
"I trusted him." Dad's hands were white on the steering wheel. "Forty years. Forty years I've known that man. And this is what he does?"
"He didn't do anything—"
"Don't." The word was sharp. Final. "Don't defend him. Don't make excuses. He's forty-three years old, Adison. You'retwenty-one. The math alone is disgusting."
"Mom was younger than you—"
"Your mother and I met as equals. Adults. Not—" He couldn't finish. "You were sent there to learn humility. To grow up. Not to fuck my best friend."
The vulgarity shocked me more than the anger. Dad never swore. Not around me.
"I'm an adult. I can make my own—"
"Choices? With what money? What independence?" He glanced at me. Cold. "You've never worked a day in your life. Never paid rent. Never worried about bills. You live in my world on my dime and you follow my rules. That's the deal."
"That's not fair—"
"Life isn't fair. You want fair? Get a job. Support yourself. Then make whatever choices you want." His voice was ice. "Until then, you're coming home. You're marrying Charles. And you're never contacting Jake Sullivan again."
The private terminal was empty. Of course it was. Dad had called ahead. No witnesses to the prodigal daughter's return.
On the plane, he continued. Different angle this time—concern instead of rage.
"He's not who you think he is." Dad's tone shifted. Softer. More dangerous. "Jake's been in love with your mother for twenty years. You look just like her. Can't you see what's happening?"
"He loves me—"
"He loves the ghost of Elena." Dad leaned forward. "You're young. Beautiful. Remind him of what he lost. That's all this is. And when the novelty wears off, when you stop being the shiny new thing that looks like his first love—what then?"
The words burrowed under my skin. Infected.
"He told me about Mom." Defensive. "About how she chose you. He was honest—"
"Honest?" Dad laughed. Bitter. "Adison. He had you completely isolated on that ranch. No friends. No support system. Just him. Do you know what that's called? Grooming. Manipulation. And you were so desperate for someone to see you that you fell for it."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" His eyes bored into me. "Think about it. Really think. He criticized everything about you at first. Made you work until you were exhausted. Pushed you away until you were desperate for his approval. Then—conveniently—decided you were worth his attention. Classic predator behavior."
No. No, that wasn't how it happened. Was it?
"I chose him—"
"You chose what he wanted you to choose." Dad's voice was gentle now. Deadly gentle. "That's how manipulation works. You think it's your idea. But he planted every seed. Watered every insecurity. And when you were vulnerable enough, he swooped in playing hero."
My chest felt tight. Wrong. This was wrong.
But the doubt was there now. Spreading.
"Your trust fund vests next year." Dad changed tactics again. "You'll have full access to your inheritance. Fifteen million dollars. Your mother's money. But if you walk away from this family, from your responsibilities—" He paused. "I'll contest it. Prove you're mentally unfit. That you were manipulated by a man twice your age. And you'll get nothing."
The threat was clear. Choose Jake, lose everything.
"You wouldn't—"
"Try me." Steel in his voice. "I will not watch you throw your life away for some midlife crisis masquerading as love. You're better than this. Smarter than this. And when you're thirty and looking back, you'll thank me."
I stared out the window. Clouds below. Sky above. Nothing solid anywhere.
We landed at Teterboro. Same private terminal I'd left from two months ago. Felt like a lifetime. Felt like yesterday.
My phone buzzed the second we were in the town car. Charles.
Dad's eyes locked on me. Waiting. Testing.
I answered. "Hey."
"Adison!" Charles's voice was enthusiasm incarnate. "Your father said you finished early! I'm so glad. God, I've missed you. How was Texas?"
Dad watched. Unblinking.
"It was—educational." Kept my voice light. Breezy. The performance of a lifetime. "Definitely humbling."
"I bet. All that manual labor." He laughed. "But you're back now. That's what matters. I was thinking—dinner tomorrow? Catch up? I want to hear everything."
No you don't, I thought. You want to hear the sanitized version where I learned my lesson and came home grateful.
"Sure. Tomorrow sounds great."
"Perfect. I'll make reservations at Daniel. Seven?"
"Seven works."
"And Adison?" His voice got softer. "I really did miss you. Things are moving forward with the campaign. Having you by my side—it's going to be incredible."
By his side. Like an accessory. A prop in his political theater.
"Yeah. Can't wait."
The lie tasted like ash.
"Love you."
The words stuck in my throat. Wouldn't come.
"Talk tomorrow," I managed. Hung up.
Dad nodded. Satisfied. Like I'd passed some test. "Good. You're learning."
Learning what? How to lie? How to perform? How to be exactly what everyone wanted while killing who I actually was?
The car pulled up to our building. Home. Except it didn't feel like home anymore. Felt like a museum. Beautiful. Expensive. Lifeless.
"Get some rest." Dad's voice was almost kind. "Tomorrow we'll talk logistics. Wedding timeline. Charles wants to move the date up. Campaign benefits from the optics."
Of course it does. Everything was optics. Strategy. Performance.
I nodded. Mute. Compliant. Everything he wanted.
Took the elevator to the penthouse. My room looked exactly how I'd left it. Untouched. Waiting. Like the last two months had never happened.
Except they had. I'd changed. Grown. Become someone different.
Or had I?
Sat on my bed—designer linens, custom mattress, everything I'd grown up with—and let the doubt flood in.
Was Dad right? Had Jake manipulated me? Used my loneliness and desperation to mold me into Elena 2.0?
The age gap was huge. Forty-three andtwenty-one. That wasn't nothing. That was—significant. Power imbalance. Life experience. All the things people warned about.
And I had been isolated. No friends. No support system. Just Jake and Tommy and endless work. Perfect conditions for manipulation.
But—
No. It hadn't felt like that. Had it?
Loving Jake had felt like choosing myself. Like finally being seen as a whole person instead of a decorative object.
But maybe that was the manipulation talking. Maybe I was so starved for authenticity that I'd mistaken control for love.
My phone sat silent on the nightstand. No texts from Jake. But Dad probably had my number blocked on Jake's end. Or threatened him enough that Jake knew better than to try.
Either way—silence.
I stared at the ceiling. Manhattan stretched below. My entire world. The life I'd always known.
Safe. Predictable. Suffocating.
But mine. My inheritance. My family. My entire safety net.
Could I really walk away from that? For what—a ranch in Texas and a man who might just be using me as an Elena substitute?
What if Dad was right? What if I went back and six months from now Jake realized I wasn't her? That I'd never be her? What if the novelty wore off and I was left with nothing—no family, no money, no future?
The smart choice was obvious. Stay. Marry Charles. Take the safe path.
The brave choice was terrifying. Go back. Risk everything. Choose love over security.
But which choice was actually brave? And which was just naive stupidity disguised as courage?
I didn't know anymore.
Two months ago I'd been so certain. So sure I was trapped and desperate to escape.
Now—sitting in my Manhattan penthouse with my entire former life waiting—I wasn't sure of anything.
Maybe my father was right.
Maybe I'd been naive.
Maybe choosing safety wasn't weakness. Maybe it was wisdom.
The thought should've felt like relief.
Instead it felt like dying.