Scars of Devotion

Chapter Eleven – The Whispered Name

Emily Parker’s POV

I never thought silence could be so loud.

Ryan and I had been sitting in my apartment for over an hour, the hum of the city outside mixing with the low hiss of my radiator. He was flipping through old case files, his scars catching the dull light of the lamp. I was pretending to read, but my mind wasn’t on the words.

It was on the box.

The box I’d found at Margaret’s brownstone the week before, hidden beneath a stack of moth-eaten blankets in her attic. A dusty shoebox filled with brittle letters, photographs, and one thing I couldn’t unsee: my mother’s handwriting.

I hadn’t told Ryan yet. Not everything.

Because at the bottom of that box, folded and yellowed with age, was a letter addressed to me.

"My dearest Emily," it began. If you are reading this, it means I never had the chance to tell you the truth myself. Your aunt will never forgive me, and she will twist the story until you hate me too. But you must know this: the man you call father… was never truly yours. Your real father’s name is—

And then the ink smudged, smeared by what looked like water stains. Or tears.

Only one word was clear.

Jameson.

I hadn’t slept since.

Ryan glanced at me over the rim of his coffee mug. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Chewing on a secret until it eats you alive.” He set the mug down, leaning forward. “Talk to me, Emily.”

I closed the book in my lap, fingers trembling. He deserved to know. But the thought of saying it aloud made my chest tighten, like it would change everything forever.

“I found something,” I whispered.

His brow furrowed. “Found what?”

I stood, pacing, the floor creaking under my bare feet. “At Margaret’s. In her attic. A box of my mother’s things. Letters.”

Ryan straightened, every line of his body tense. “And?”

I hesitated. “One of them… one of them says the man I thought was my father isn’t. That there was someone else. Someone named Jameson.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Ryan ran a hand over his jaw, his scars pale in the lamplight.

“Jameson,” he repeated slowly, like testing the weight of it. “And you believe it?”

I bit my lip. “It was her handwriting. She was telling me directly. Why would she lie?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes softened, but there was a flicker of something else—fear, maybe. “Emily, this could be a trap. Margaret could’ve planted it, knowing you’d find it.”

“No,” I said sharply, shaking my head. “This was my mother. I could feel it. Every word was hers.”

Ryan sighed, standing to cross the room. He placed his hands gently on my shoulders. “Okay. So say it’s true. What do you want to do with it?”

I stared up at him, my throat dry. “I need to know who he is. Where he is. Why my mother kept him a secret.”

“And if knowing destroys what little peace you have left?” he asked quietly.

I swallowed hard. “Then at least I’ll know the truth. I can’t live on Margaret’s lies anymore.”

Ryan’s grip tightened, his gaze fierce. “Then we do this together. But promise me something, Emily: don’t let this tear you apart before it even begins. You’re not alone anymore.”

But I was alone that night.

Ryan fell asleep on the couch, exhausted. I sat at the kitchen table, the letter unfolded in front of me, the single name staring back like a curse. Jameson.

I whispered it aloud, testing the sound. “Jameson.”

The word felt foreign. Heavy. Like it belonged to someone who could upend everything I thought I knew about myself.

My phone buzzed, jolting me. A text from an unknown number.

Stop digging, Emily. Some truths are better buried.

My stomach dropped. My eyes darted to Ryan, still asleep, unaware.

Another buzz.

If you love him, you’ll walk away now. Before it kills you both.

I clutched the phone, my hands shaking. The number was blocked. No name, no clue.

But I didn’t need one.

This reeked of Margaret.

The next day, I went to see her again.

She answered the door with that same cruel smirk. “Back for more, dear? I thought I gave you enough nightmares the last time.”

I shoved the letter in her face. “Who is Jameson?”

For a flicker of a second, her expression changed. Shock. Then quickly buried under a sneer.

“I see you found her little love notes. Pathetic, really. Still clinging to fairytales even in death.”

My voice cracked. “Tell me the truth, Margaret.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice until her breath was hot against my ear. “The truth, Emily, is poison. And if you drink it, you’ll choke on it. Just like your mother did.”

I jerked back, disgust curling in my stomach. “So it’s real. He’s real.”

Her eyes glittered. “Maybe. Or maybe your mother was a liar to the very end. Either way, what difference does it make? Ryan will leave you when he knows. Men like him don’t want women with tainted blood.”

I slapped her before I even realized I’d moved. The c***k echoed through the hallway.

She touched her cheek, eyes widening, then laughed. Laughed like the devil herself.

“Oh, darling,” she purred. “You’ve inherited more from your mother than her eyes. You’ve inherited her temper. And her curse.”

I turned and stormed out before she could see the tears burning down my face.

That night, Ryan found me on the fire escape, knees tucked to my chest, the city lights blurring in the distance.

“Emily,” he said softly, climbing out beside me. “Tell me what she said.”

I looked at him, the man who had lost everything but still held onto me, and my heart broke all over again.

“She said he’s real. That Jameson’s real. And that it changes everything.”

Ryan cupped my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. “No. It changes nothing. You’re still you. You’re still Emily Parker, the woman I—" He stopped himself, swallowing. “The woman who saved me when I couldn’t save myself.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks. “What if I don’t even know who I am?”

“Then we’ll find out together,” he whispered.

And for the first time since I saw that name, I felt a flicker of hope.

But deep down, I knew Margaret wasn’t finished.

And neither was Jameson.