The Wrong Man to Love

The first thing I noticed was the silence. Not real silence—the sprinklers ticked past the hedges, Sienna’s tires crunched over gravel, the engine made that cooling-down ticking sound. But something about the estate felt muffled. Like the house was holding its breath. Maybe because I'd been away six months. Maybe because Sienna hadn't stopped talking since she picked me up from the airport, yet the second we passed through the iron gates, she'd gone quiet in a way that made me look at her. "Okay," I said. "Why are you acting weird?" "I'm not." "You are." She tucked honey-brown hair behind her ear. Didn't look at me. "My dad's home." I glanced back at the mansion. "That's why you're acting like someone died?" "Not properly home," she said. "He's been in Tokyo for three months. This is the first time he's staying longer than a weekend." There was something in how she said it. I knew that tone—Sienna's voice got that specific flatness when she was trying not to feel something. I'd heard it when her parents finalized their divorce, heard it when she flunked her chemistry final last spring. The Carter estate had always been familiar. I knew which kitchen cabinet hid the good chocolate, which staircase creaked on the third step, which guest room had the view of the gardens that didn't feel like looking at a postcard. When my mom died—when I was six, when Dad told me it was a boating accident overseas—I spent more time here than home. Sienna never asked why. Just made room. She got out. I followed. Warm air caught my bare arms. The evening smelled of wet grass and jasmine—that thick sweetness that climbed the walls and got into your clothes. Sienna reached the front steps before me. Then turned. "Don't make it weird." I frowned. "Make what weird?" "My dad." I laughed. "Why would I? I've known him since I was six." "Exactly." Before I could ask what that meant, the door opened. Mrs. Bennett appeared, smiling so wide Sienna barely got inside before being pulled into a hug. "My goodness. Look at you." "I was here two weeks ago." "And you've changed." "I literally haven't." Mrs. Bennett turned to me. "Isla." I smiled as she hugged me too. The familiar scent of lavender clung to her cardigan. For a moment, everything felt normal. Then footsteps from the hallway. Sienna's arms dropped. "Dad." I turned. Damien Carter walked into the foyer. I'd seen photographs. Business magazines where he looked like a shark in a suit. The occasional picture Sienna sent when he was being particularly unbearable at dinner. None of them prepared me for seeing him in person again. He wasn't wearing a jacket. White shirt open at the throat, sleeves pushed to his elbows, showing forearms that looked like they could snap wood. A watch sat against his wrist, catching light when he lowered his phone. He looked tired. Not weak—just worn at the edges, like leather that had been handled too much. His eyes found Sienna first. Something softened. "Hey, kid." She smiled. Walked toward him. I looked away. Told myself to breathe normally. Then I felt it. That strange awareness of being watched, like warmth on the back of my neck. I glanced up. Damien was looking at me. Our eyes met. He didn't look away immediately. Neither did I. Two seconds. Three. I became suddenly aware of the glass door behind me, cool air seeping through. The strap of my bag digging into my shoulder. The loose strand of hair brushing my cheek, tickling. "Isla." His voice brought me back. Rougher than I remembered. "Mr. Carter." Sienna groaned. "Oh, please." He gave the smallest smile. "You still call me that?" "I haven't seen you in months." "Four months." I blinked. "You remember?" His eyes stayed on mine. Dark. Steady. "I remember plenty." Something about that answer followed me upstairs. Even after Sienna started talking again, filling silence with stories about her semester, her new boots, the professor who wore the same tie three weeks straight. Even after Mrs. Bennett called us down for dinner, even after the house settled into its nighttime quiet. I couldn't stop thinking about it. Sienna fell asleep before I did. Sprawled across her bed, one leg hanging off, phone still glowing beside her hand. I slipped out quietly. Told myself I was only going downstairs for water. That was all. The hallway was dark, lit by those little wall lamps that threw pale pools across the floor. I reached the stairs. Then I heard voices. Stopped. My father's voice. I knew it immediately—the particular cadence, the way he said words like he was negotiating even when he wasn't. "What are you doing here, Richard?" Damien. His voice different from earlier. Colder. Sharper. I moved closer. The study door was almost closed. I shouldn't have listened. I knew that. Still did. "You had six years," Damien said. A pause. Then my father's voice, too low to make out. Damien answered. "Don't stand there and pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." My fingers tightened around the glass. Water sloshed, almost spilled. Another silence. Then "Evelyn." Everything inside me went still. My mother. I leaned closer. Shoulder pressing against the door frame. "She deserved the truth," Damien said. My father's voice rose. I couldn't make out words, just the shape of anger. Damien's came clearer. "Your daughter has no idea what you did to my family." The glass nearly slipped. I gripped harder. Your daughter. Me. I shifted weight. A floorboard creaked beneath my bare foot—small sound, loud in the sudden quiet. The voices stopped. My stomach dropped. Someone inside moved toward the door. I stepped backward. Once. Twice. The handle turned. And I realized I was standing directly beneath the light, illuminated like a specimen on a slide. Nowhere to hide.