Chapter 12
634words
I woke to find Lance keeping vigil at my bedside.
When he saw my eyes open, his entire body sagged with relief. His bloodshot eyes betrayed sleepless nights.
I frowned. I'd never seen Lance so undone.
"Alice..." his voice cracked. "
"Mm," I pushed myself upright, wincing slightly.
Lance took my hand and pressed it to his forehead in a gesture of profound relief.
I stiffened at the unexpected intimacy.
"Alice, I thought I'd lost you this time," he whispered, voice raw.
I said nothing, suddenly understanding that my "brother" harbored feelings far beyond familial duty.
Truth be told, I'd never liked Lance as a child. He was merely my father's attack dog, blindly following orders, his hands permanently stained with blood.
Now I'd become the same kind of monster, no longer entitled to judge him. I didn't particularly like him—but I'd grown dependent on his loyalty.
For three years, Lance had been my shadow, pulling me from the fire more times than I could count.
"Lance," I said firmly, "Release my hand."
Lance froze, his grip tightening. "Alice, I—I love—"
I cut him off coldly. "Remember your place."
His confession died in his throat.
In the days that followed, Lance reverted to his usual self—the silent sentinel at my side, never speaking out of turn, never overstepping boundaries.
Loki Dalton, however, became an unexpected nuisance. Having discovered my true identity, he began camping outside Wells Group headquarters daily, clutching bouquets like some lovesick teenager.
Did he honestly believe I was still that starry-eyed college girl?
His pathetic displays enraged Cynthia. She retaliated by spreading vicious rumors online—claiming I was falsely posing as Wells's daughter, that I was nothing but gutter trash who'd dropped out of college after getting knocked up.
For a brief period, my history with Loki became tabloid fodder.
I'd planned to ignore the noise until my father summoned me. Without a word of greeting, he slapped me hard across the face.
"Alice," he said coldly, "eliminate this embarrassment."
Staring at my father's impassive face, perhaps weakened by recent events, I felt an unexpected surge of long-buried hurt.
"Father," I asked quietly, "in this world, did you only ever love my mom?"
Father's expression remained granite-hard.
"Do you know why I ran away all those years ago? Because this house was like living in a freezer," I continued, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest.
Father's expression softened marginally. "Alice, my strictness comes from not wanting you to share your mother's fate—murdered because of weakness."
"I know," I smiled without humor. "I never resented your discipline. I hated that you never bothered to understand me. Do you realize I spent my childhood terrified? Every night wondering if my father would return in a body bag."
Father's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"Yes, I was foolish—throwing myself away for a man's love, enduring countless humiliations. But I survived it all. What truly broke me was returning home after all that time and seeing your face. You didn't ask what I'd suffered. You weren't even glad to see me alive."
My voice wavered slightly. "And now, the same pattern—a slap followed by 'Alice, you've disappointed me again.'"
"Well, Father, let me return those words: you've disappointed me far more than I've ever disappointed you."
For the first time in my life, I saw genuine shock crack his impassive mask.
Realizing I'd revealed too much vulnerability, I quickly rebuilt my walls. "Don't worry, Father. I'll handle the situation. The Wells name won't be tarnished."
I walked out without a backward glance, instructing Lance in the hallway: "I want everything on Cynthia's time abroad. Every detail."
