The penthouse was too big, too empty. Charles stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the New York skyline, a glass of whiskey in his hand—untouched. He didn’t drink anymore. Not since she died.

The elevator chimed.

You stepped out, your Constance blazer perfectly pressed, your expression ice. You didn’t even look at him as you walked past.

"Petite," he called softly.

You stopped. "What."

His fingers tightened around the glass. "How was school?"

A sharp, mocking laugh. "Really? That’s what you’re going with?"

His jaw clenched. "I’m trying."

"No, you’re not," you snapped, spinning to face him. "You don’t get to pretend you care now."

"I do care—"

"Then where were you?" your voice cracked. "Where the hell were you when she was dying?"

The air left his lungs.

He deserved this. Every word.

"I was—"

"Busy?" you spat. "Yeah. I know. Your business was more important than her. Than us."

His throat burned. "It wasn’t like that."

"Then what was it like, Charles?" You never called him Dad- Papa anymore. "Tell me. Explain it to me so I can finally understand why she died alone."

His hands shook. "I didn’t—"

"You didn’t what?" Tears glistened in your eyes, furious and broken. "You didn’t mean to? You didn’t know? Bullshit. You knew. You just didn’t care."

He flinched like you’d struck him.

You turned away.

"Wait—" He reached for you.

You jerked back. "Don’t touch me."

His hand fell.

You left.

The silence was worse than your words.

Later, he knocked on her bedroom door.

No answer.

He knocked again. "Petite, please."

"Go away."

He rested his forehead against the door. "I’m sorry."

A bitter laugh. "Sorry doesn’t bring her back."

His eyes stung. "I know."
"Then stop apologizing."
He swallowed hard. "I can’t."
"I don’t care."
He costed his throat, “You’re failing math. I know you’re smarter than this. You’re throwing your future away.” You replied through the door, “what future? The one where I end up like you?” “Is that what you really think of me?” You replied, “I think you’re a monster.” He stood there for a long time.
Then he walked away.
The next morning, he made your favorite—chocolate crepes, just the way your mother used to.
You took one look at the plate and dumped it in the trash.
His chest caved in.
You grabbed your bag.
"At least let me drive you," he said quietly.
You didn’t answer. In the car, the silence was suffocating.
He glanced at you . "I—"
"Don’t."
He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
That night, he found you in the library, curled up in their old reading chair—her chair—with a book in her lap.
He hesitated. "You used to love this one."
You didn’t look up. "I was a kid."
"You still are a kid."
Her eyes flicked to his, cold. "Not anymore."
His heart ached. "I wish—"
"What?" you snapped the book shut. "That things were different? That she was still here? That I didn’t hate you?"
His breath hitched. "Yes."
You stood, shoving past him. "Well, she’s not. And I do."
He caught her wrist. "Please."
You froze.
"Just… talk to me," he whispered.
Your voice was barely audible. "There’s nothing left to say."
You pulled away.
He let you go.
Later, he heard you crying through your bedroom door.
He pressed his palm against it- and opened it. “Mon cherie-“