DALTON
I'd been to this house once before. But not inside.
From the outside, it had looked ordinary faded paint, rusted gutters, a small garden that tried too hard to live. I remember thinking John deserved better. But I didn't go in that day. I'd come to confirm what my investigator told me that he was sick but stable. That he was "managing." I'd told myself I was too busy to stop by again. Too many meetings. Too many excuses. But when I got here he was already in the hospital by then.
Standing here now, inside the same house, I realized how pathetic that lie had been.
The living room was small and cluttered, but not from neglect just from life lived without enough money or time. Piles of unpaid bills sat on the table, beside prescription bottles and half-empty insulin boxes. The couch looked like it had given up trying to be furniture years ago. And in the middle of it all was Aria, curled up with her father's photograph clutched to her chest like a lifeline.
She was still in shock, barely functional. Her body trembled in waves, but her tears had run dry. The storm was over, and only the wreckage remained.
I should have left. Any normal person would've. But I couldn't.
As cold as I am, I'm not the kind of man who walks away from someone this broken. And Aria she was too fragile right now. Too hollow. Who knew what she might do if left alone with her grief?
So I stayed.
Mrs. Evans, the elderly neighbor, had come over earlier. I watched from the car as Aria clung to her like a drowning person finding brief air. When she went inside, I gave her time to settle. I expected to find her asleep or crying. I didn't expect to find… this.
A life so painfully modest it hurt to look at.
John had given his life to my family, driving my father everywhere, staying loyal even when the paychecks came late and the hours got longer. And this was where he ended up sick, broke, buried under medical debt while I sat in a penthouse sipping imported scotch and pretending ignorance.
The guilt sat heavy in my chest, an emotion I hadn't felt in years.
I moved quietly, my shoes making soft sounds on the worn wooden floor. I picked up one of the envelopes from the table overdue notices, medical bills, collection letters. I didn't open them. I didn't need to. The desperation was written all over them.
I looked toward Aria again. She'd calmed down a little. Her breathing had evened out. She was lying on her side, still gripping that photograph.
John's photo.
For a moment, I saw flashes of him the man who'd taught me how to change a tire when I was thirteen, who'd quietly scolded me when I'd talked back to my mother. I remembered the day he left shortly after my father's death.I was so heartbroken when i heard the news.I didn't know he was fired. Or living like this.
Now I know.
And I hate myself for it.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the only person who would understand.
"Dalton?" Darcy's voice came through, sharp and sleepy. "What's going on?"
"I'm at John's."
That woke her up instantly. "John Davis? As in our old driver we were talking about a few days ago?"
"Yes."
There was a pause. "Oh my God. Did something happen?"
"He's gone." The words came out flat, but inside, they burned. "He passed a few hours ago."
"Oh, Dalton…" Her voice softened. "I'm so sorry. And his daughter..Aria was it?"
"She's… holding on by a thread," I said quietly. "I don't think she's processed it yet."
Darcy sighed on the other end. "You're staying with her, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Good?" I repeated, frowning.
"She needs someone. And whether you like it or not, you're the only one who can do this. You owe it to him."
I hated when she was right.
Darcy hesitated, then said softly, "You were close to him once. I think he would've wanted it to be you this is not a coincidence Dalton its fate."
Yeah right.I bet it is.
we talked for a few more minutes I ended the call before she could say more. I couldn't stand the reminder that I'd failed John in every way that mattered.
When I turned back, Aria had drifted into a restless sleep. Her breathing was shallow, uneven. She looked too small on that old couch, her fingers still curled around the photo like a child afraid of losing her favorite toy.
She shouldn't sleep there.
I glanced toward the hallway and saw a door slightly ajar a glimpse of her bedroom beyond it. It was simple, tidy. A shelf lined with worn books, a small desk with a flickering lamp, and a bed that looked infinitely more comfortable than the couch.
For a long moment, I debated whether to move her. I'd carried unconscious people before usually drunk friends at college parties, or my sister when she'd twisted her ankle but this felt different.
It felt wrong. Too intimate.
Still, I couldn't leave her there.
I knelt beside the couch, hesitating only a second before sliding one arm under her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. She was lighter than I expected fragile, like a secret I wasn't supposed to hold.
She stirred faintly, her head falling against my shoulder. "Dad…" she whispered in her sleep, and I froze.
Fuck. Fuck fuck.What do I do?
For a man who prided himself on composure, that single word nearly undid me.
I carried her to the bedroom and laid her gently on the bed. She curled instinctively toward the pillow, still clutching the photograph.
For a long moment, I just stood there, watching her. There was something painfully human about her face without all the defenses the stubborn frown, the sarcasm, the spark that always met my coldness head-on. Now, stripped of all that, she looked heartbreakingly young.So beautiful even with the grief all over her face.
A loose strand of hair fell across her cheek. Before I could stop myself, I brushed it away. My fingers lingered for half a second too long.
Then I caught myself.
"Get it together," I muttered, stepping back sharply. "She's grieving. You're here because of John. That's it."
I left the room quickly and closed the door behind me.
Back in the living room, the air felt heavy. The clock ticked softly, the refrigerator hummed, and the house seemed to sigh with the weight of absence.
I sank into the couch if you could call it that. The thing was so worn out it might as well have been made of sandpaper and regret. I shifted twice, scowled, and gave up trying to find a comfortable position.
"Jesus," I muttered under my breath. "How does anyone survive on this thing?"
Marcus, my driver, was still waiting outside. I pulled out my phone again.
"Marcus," I said when he answered, "go home. I'll call you in the morning."
A pause. "Sir? Are you sure? I can wait "
"No. Get some rest. I'm staying here tonight."
He hesitated but didn't argue. "Understood, sir. Good night."
When the line went dead, I tossed the phone on the table and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
What the hell was I doing?
I'd spent years avoiding emotional entanglements. My world ran on contracts, mergers, acquisitions things that could be quantified, predicted, controlled. People? They were unpredictable. Messy. And this situation… it was chaos.
But I couldn't walk away.
Not when I'd promised John. Not when I'd seen what his daughter was living through.
I closed my eyes and tried to rest, but my mind wouldn't shut off. Images kept replaying the look on John's face in the hospital, the way his voice had broken when he'd asked me to take care of her.
"You're the only one I trust, son."
That word again. Son. He'd said it like he meant it.
I'd spent so long pretending not to care that I'd forgotten how much I actually did.
Now he was gone, and the responsibility he'd left behind sat squarely on my shoulders.
I rubbed my temples, the ache in my head matching the one in my chest. "You really screwed me over, old man," I muttered softly. "You know I'm not good at this."
I wasn't good with people. Darcy was the only one who could tolerate me for more than five minutes at a time. I didn't do empathy. I didn't do caretaking. I didn't do feelings.
And yet here I was, sitting on a couch that felt like punishment, watching over a woman who would probably hate me more in the morning.
But she was alone now. Completely alone.
And whether she wanted it or not, she was my responsibility.
I stared at the photo she'd dropped when I carried her to bed John smiling with his arm around a younger Aria on the left side and another one who I by the resemblance is her late twin and their mum holding the other twin, maybe twelve or thirteen. Aria's braces flashing, her hair wild. They looked happy. whole.
I picked it up carefully and set it on the table beside the couch.
Outside, the first hints of dawn began to seep through the curtains. The light was gray and cold
the kind of light that makes everything look sharper, more real.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and exhaled slowly.
"I'll figure this out," I said quietly to no one. "Somehow."
But even as I said it, I wasn't sure I believed it.