The Castellano mansion is exactly as I remember it, which only makes it feel more wrong. It's a museum of a life that no longer belongs to me, every corner thick with memories I'd rather forget.
The air smells like lilies and old money, that particular scent of wealth that used to mean safety. Now it just makes my skin crawl.
Father's men don't take me to the family room or the kitchen. They escort me to his study like I'm a prisoner being brought before a judge.
Not a daughter coming home. A problem to be managed.
Father stands by the window when I enter, shoulders slightly slumped, a glass of scotch in his hand. He's not in his usual power suit—just silk pajamas and a robe that probably costs more than most people's rent.
He turns when he hears me, and his face transforms into perfect paternal concern. "Esther, thank God."
His voice is soft, almost breaking. "My men said they found you on the street, looking... lost. What happened?"
I stay by the door, arms crossed over my chest. Every muscle in my body is tense, ready to run or fight.
"What do you care?" My voice comes out flat. "You got what you wanted. I'm married."
Father sighs, deep and theatrical. The sound of a father carrying the weight of his mistakes.
He walks over, reaching out like he wants to put a hand on my shoulder. I flinch away before he can touch me.
"I was wrong," he says, his voice dropping to something softer, almost vulnerable. "I see that now. Forcing you into that marriage... it was a mistake."
He pauses, letting that sink in.
"I was trying to protect the family, but I sacrificed you." His eyes meet mine, searching. "Can't a father apologize for that?"
The performance is flawless. It's exactly what I once, desperately, wanted to hear—back when I was still naive enough to believe my father loved me more than he loved power.
A small, broken part of me—the girl who cried in the garden—wants to believe him.
He sees my hesitation, the crack in my armor. He guides me toward the leather sofa, his hand on my elbow gentle instead of controlling.
"Sit," he says. "Please. You look exhausted."
I do sit, mostly because my legs are shaking. The adrenaline from the kidnapping is wearing off, leaving me hollow.
Father settles into the chair across from me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "He hurt you, didn't he?"
The question is quiet, almost tender. "Did he kick you out?"
Something breaks inside me. The betrayal is so fresh, so raw, that I can't keep it contained anymore.
"He accused me," I whisper, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "He thinks I'm a traitor. A spy."
My hands are shaking, so I clasp them together in my lap. "He's letting that bitch Ivy poison him against me. Feeding him lies and he's swallowing every one."
"Esther—"
"He chose her." My voice cracks. "After everything we've been through, everything we've built... he chose her over me."
I don't realize I'm crying until Father presses something soft into my hands. A silk handkerchief, monogrammed with his initials.
He doesn't speak, just lets me vent. Lets me pour out all the pain and fury and heartbreak that's been building since that office confrontation.
I tell him everything. About Ivy's manipulations, about Rafael's suspicions, about the information leaks that made Cassian think I was betraying him. About how I confessed I loved him and he threw it back in my face like it was just another lie.
When I finally run out of words, Father sits back in his chair. His expression shifts, softens further into something that looks like genuine rage on my behalf.
"That bastard." His voice is quiet, but lethal. "He's worse than I thought."
He stands, starts pacing the room like he's trying to contain his anger. "I've been doing my own research, Esther. After what happened to your sister... I had to know what kind of man I'd given you to."
He stops, turns to face me fully. "I have proof. Medical reports. Witness statements."
His jaw tightens. "Cassian orchestrated Kaia's miscarriage. He murdered my grandchild."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. I stare at him, my mind trying to process.
Cassian did do it. I know he did—he sent me that note, called it a wedding gift. But he did it as justice for me, as retribution for what Kaia and Aaron destroyed.
Father doesn't know that part.
"He hurt my daughter," Father snarls, and for a moment his performance as grieving father blends seamlessly with real rage. "He hurt Kaia, and now he's thrown you to the wolves like you're nothing."
He moves closer, crouches in front of me so we're eye level. "I'm going to destroy him, Esther. I'm going to bury that bastard."
His hands grip my shoulders, not hard but intense. "But I need your help. You know his operations. You know his weaknesses, his routines, his vulnerabilities."
His eyes bore into mine. "Tell me everything. Help me get justice for our family. For you."
And in that moment, it all clicks into place.
The tears dry on my cheeks, replaced by something arctic and sharp. My internal voice cuts through the fog of exhaustion and heartbreak, clear as a bell.
So for Kaia, you're willing to kill the man the whole country fears. But me? You sold me to him like livestock and never looked back.
I study my father's face. The concern, the rage, the intensity—it's all real. But it's not for me.
"You don't care that he hurt me," I say quietly.
Father blinks, his mask slipping for just a second. "What? Of course I—"
"You only care that he hurt her." I stand up, putting distance between us. "Kaia. Your real daughter."
"Esther, that's not—"
"You're using the same line you used when you forced me into this marriage." My voice is steady now, cold. "Protection. Family. But it was never about protecting me, was it?"
Father's expression hardens, the concerned father evaporating. "You're upset. You're not thinking clearly."
"I'm thinking perfectly clearly." I move toward the door. "You want to destroy Cassian? Do it yourself. I'm not your weapon."
"You don't have a choice." His voice drops, shows his true colors. "You're back under this roof, which means you're back under my rules."
I turn to face him fully. "Is that a threat?"
"It's reality." He pours himself another scotch, his movements casual. "Where are you going to go? Back to your husband who doesn't trust you? You have no money, no allies, nowhere to run."
He's right, and we both know it. But something in me has shifted, hardened.
"You're not offering salvation," I say quietly. "You're just offering a different cage."
Father's smile is cold. "At least this cage comes with family. With people who actually care about you."
"No." I meet his gaze steadily. "You care about what I can do for you. There's a difference."
The study door opens, and Patricia appears in the doorway. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of Kaia in the hallway, watching with those calculating eyes.
"Darling," Patricia says to Father, her voice syrupy sweet. "I've prepared Esther's old room. She must be exhausted from her... ordeal."
The word hangs in the air. Ordeal. Like I'm a victim they've rescued instead of a prisoner they've collected.
Father gestures toward the door. "Go get some rest. We'll talk more in the morning when you're thinking clearly."
I don't move. "And if I don't want to stay?"
"Then I'll have my men escort you back to your room." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "For your own protection, of course."