“Good to see you, too, dad.” I stepped toward his desk—the same desk where I asked him to believe me that I did not sleep with Trace, but he never bent his twisted belief to give me a shot even I begged him with my life.
Walking into this place again hurt me so terribly—everything that night came reminiscing back like a skin disease—the more you scratched, the more it itched. All the hurtful words, the disgusted look they threw at me were just like yesterday.
And here I thought Harlow was on my side—I was utterly wrong. She did those things to get rid of me. How could I be so blinded with my judgment? How did I miss those clues? I was completely blindsided. If I slept with her fiancé, then why she didn’t even hate me?
I wandered around. The paintings were the same—they were mom’s favori
