CHAPTER 13_ Fix it
1803 Words
The office was silent.
Dead silent.
The kind of silence that made people nervous.
The kind that existed only in rooms where power lived.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline.
Expensive paintings decorated the walls.
A massive mahogany desk sat at the center.
Behind it stood one of the most influential politicians in the country.
Richard Shawn.
Ethan's father.
The older man's expression was dark.
Cold.
Disappointed.
Ethan stood before the desk.
Hands in his pockets.
Unbothered.
Or at least pretending to be.
Richard slammed a newspaper onto the desk.
The sound echoed through the room.
"Look at it."
Ethan didn't move.
"I said look at it."
Slowly, Ethan lowered his gaze.
The headline stared back at him.
POLITICIAN'S SON RELEASED AFTER FIVE-YEAR SENTENCE
Richard laughed.
A bitter laugh.
"Do you know what people call me now?"
Silence.
"They don't call me Minister Shawn."
His voice rose.
"They don't call me Governor Shawn."
Another slap against the newspaper.
"They call me the father of a Rapist."
Ethan remained expressionless.
Richard pointed toward him.
"You had everything."
His voice was filled with anger.
"Everything."
"Wealth."
"Power."
"Influence."
"Opportunity."
His jaw tightened.
"Girls lined up for you."
His disgust became obvious.
"And yet you destroyed your future by trying to force yourself on a wench?."
Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly.
Richard continued.
"For what?"
The office became silent.
"For what, Ethan?"
Another step forward.
"You threw everything away because you couldn't control yourself......Couldn't control what's in-between your legs"
Ethan's jaw clenched.
"You embarrassed this family."
"You embarrassed me."
"You embarrassed yourself."
Still Ethan said nothing.
Richard stared at him for several moments.
Then finally sat down.
The disappointment somehow felt worse than the shouting.
"I had plans for you."
His voice lowered.
"One day this name."
He tapped the desk.
"This power."
"This empire."
"It was supposed to become yours."
Silence.
"But not anymore."
Ethan looked up.
Richard met his gaze.
"You want to be my successor?"
The older man's eyes hardened.
"Earn it."
The room grew still.
"Three months."
Ethan frowned.
"Three months?"
Richard nodded.
"Three months to clean up your image."
His fingers tapped the desk.
"Three months to prove you're useful."
Silence.
"Fail."
His voice became ice.
"And don't call me father."
The words hung heavily in the air.
"Don't think about inheriting anything
"Don't think about becoming my successor."
Another pause.
"Three months, Ethan."
Then Richard stood.
The meeting was over.
Without another word, the politician walked toward the door.
Just before leaving, he stopped.
His back still facing Ethan.
"Fix your mess."
The door opened.
Then closed.
Leaving Ethan alone.
Silence filled the office.
For several moments he didn't move.
---
Didn't speak.
---
Didn't blink.
---
Then slowly—
a smile appeared.
---
A dangerous one.
---
Because his father thought this was about reputation.
About politics.
About public image.
---
How wrong he was.
---
Ethan reached into his pocket.
---
Pulled out his phone.
---
The screen lit up.
---
And there she was.
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Arielle.
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A photograph taken from the school blog.
---
Her blonde hair.
Her soft smile.
Her eyes.
---
Five years.
---
Five years later.
---
And somehow she still looked the same.
---
Ethan stared at the image.
---
The smile disappeared.
---
His grip tightened around the phone.
---
Until his knuckles turned white.
---
"You ruined everything."
---
The whisper escaped him.
---
Soft.
---
Venomous.
---
"You got your happy ending."
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His eyes darkened.
---
"While I rotted."
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Silence.
---
Arielle's image remained on the screen.
---
Unaware.
Innocent.
---
Ethan laughed quietly.
---
A sound completely devoid of humor.
---
"Three months, huh?"
---
He leaned back in the chair.
---
His gaze never leaving the picture.
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"That's more than enough."
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A slow smile spread across his face.
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The kind of smile that belonged in nightmares.
---
"You won't see me coming."
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His thumb brushed across the screen.
---
"But you'll remember me."
---
The office seemed colder suddenly.
---
Darker.
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Because Ethan Shawn had just been given a deadline.
---
And in his mind—
Arielle Vance had become the answer.
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The game had officially begun. 🖤
The morning sun poured through the kitchen windows.
Soft.
Golden.
Peaceful.
A complete contrast to the storm raging inside Arielle.
---
She stood quietly at the kitchen counter.
An apron tied around her waist.
Her blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail.
---
The house was empty.
Her mother had left early for work.
Leaving Arielle alone.
---
Normally she'd be preparing for school.
Normally she'd be forcing herself through another day of pretending.
---
But not today.
---
Today her body had finally won.
---
The pain in her chest from yesterday hadn't disappeared.
The blood she'd coughed up still haunted her.
---
So for the first time since returning—
she stayed home.
---
Arielle carefully rolled another boiled egg in breadcrumbs.
Then lowered it into hot oil.
---
The scotch egg immediately began sizzling.
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A small smile touched her lips.
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Cooking.
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One of the few things that still made her feel normal.
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For a moment she allowed herself to focus only on that.
The smell.
The warmth.
The sound of frying oil.
---
No Lucien.
No Marco.
No Elias.
No Isabella
No countdown.
---
Just breakfast.
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Then her phone rang.
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Arielle glanced toward the counter.
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The screen lit up.
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DAD ❤️
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Immediately her smile softened.
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"Dad."
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She quickly wiped her hands and answered.
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"Hello?"
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The familiar warm chuckle came through the speaker.
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"Well, good morning to my favorite daughter."
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Arielle rolled her eyes.
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"Dad."
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"What?"
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"You only have one daughter."
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"Exactly."
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His voice became playful.
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"So naturally you're my favorite."
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Despite everything—
Arielle laughed.
Actually laughed.
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A genuine one.
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And hearing it made the man on the other end smile.
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"There she is."
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"What?"
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"That laugh."
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His voice softened.
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"I've missed it."
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The smile slowly disappeared from Arielle's face.
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Of course he had.
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Her father knew.
Everything.
---
The illness.
The hospital visits.
The fear.
The tears.
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He knew all of it.
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Unlike everyone else.
---
"How are you feeling today?"
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The question immediately carried concern.
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Arielle looked down.
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"I'm okay."
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"Liar."
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"Dad."
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"You always say that."
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Arielle laughed weakly.
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Because it was true.
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"I'm okay."
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"You don't sound okay."
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Silence.
---
Her father sighed.
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"Did you go to school?"
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"No."
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"Good."
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Arielle blinked.
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"Good?"
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"Your health comes first."
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His voice became serious.
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"Not school."
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"Not friends."
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"Not anyone."
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"You."
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Arielle felt her throat tighten.
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Because nobody ever said that.
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Nobody except him.
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The frying oil crackled quietly nearby.
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Her father spoke again.
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"Have you eaten?"
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"I'm making scotch eggs."
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A pause.
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Then laughter.
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"You got that from me."
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Arielle smiled.
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"You say that every time."
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"Because it's true."
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Another laugh.
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For a moment—
everything felt normal.
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Like she wasn't dying.
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Like she wasn't running out of time.
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Like she wasn't carrying a secret capable of destroying everything.
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Then her father asked quietly—
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"Did you see them?"
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The smile vanished.
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Immediately.
---
Arielle lowered her eyes.
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"Yes."
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Silence.
---
"How did it go?"
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A tear formed instantly.
---
Her father already knew the answer.
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The silence told him enough.
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"Oh, sweetheart."
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That broke her.
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Because only fathers could say two words and somehow make tears appear.
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Arielle leaned against the counter.
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"He hates me."
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The confession came out small.
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Painfully small.
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"He really hates me."
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Silence filled the line.
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Then her father spoke softly.
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"Can you blame him?"
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Arielle closed her eyes.
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"No."
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"Neither can I."
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The honesty hurt.
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But she appreciated it.
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Because her father never lied to her.
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"You disappeared."
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"I know."
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"You left without explaining."
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"I know."
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"You broke their hearts."
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A tear slipped down her cheek.
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"I know."
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The kitchen became quiet.
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Then her father sighed.
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"Telling the truth isn't weakness, Arielle."
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She froze.
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The conversation had arrived.
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The one she always avoided.
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"Dad..."
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"No."
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His voice remained gentle.
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"But listen to me."
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Arielle stared at the floor.
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"Telling them won't make them hate you."
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"You don't know that."
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"I know people."
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Silence.
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Her father continued.
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"They deserve the truth."
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Arielle felt panic rise.
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"No."
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"They do."
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"No."
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"Arielle."
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"No."
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Her voice cracked.
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"If they find out now..."
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She couldn't finish.
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Because saying it aloud made it real.
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The illness.
The prognosis.
The countdown.
---
Everything.
---
Her father became quiet.
---
Then asked softly—
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"How much time do you think you have left?"
---
Arielle closed her eyes.
---
The question hurt.
---
Because neither of them knew.
---
The doctors had estimates.
Possibilities.
Predictions.
---
But no certainty.
---
And that uncertainty terrified her.
---
"I don't know."
---
Her voice trembled.
---
"I don't know, Dad."
---
The confession shattered something inside her.
---
For a moment neither spoke.
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Then her father said quietly—
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"Then stop wasting the time you do have."
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Arielle's breath caught.
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"Tell them."
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Silence.
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"Let them understand."
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Another silence.
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"Let them be angry."
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Another.
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"Let them cry."
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His voice cracked slightly.
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"But let them know."
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Arielle felt tears rolling freely now.
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Because part of her knew he was right.
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Part of her wanted to tell Lucien everything.
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Wanted to tell Isabella.
Marco.
Elias.
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Wanted to scream the truth.
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But fear always stopped her.
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What if they looked at her differently?
What if they pitied her?
What if Lucien's hatred disappeared only because he felt sorry for her?
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She didn't want pity.
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She wanted forgiveness.
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And somehow—
those weren't the same thing.
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The scotch egg continued frying.
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Neither noticed.
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Because father and daughter stood separated by distance—
yet united by the same fear.
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And for the first time in a very long time—
Arielle wondered if maybe keeping the secret was hurting everyone more than revealing it ever could.
- Writer
