Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
I pouted.
He sighed but added, “Extra cheese.”
“Mr. Sun?” Natalie gasped. “Do you… need any help?”
“Clearly,” he drawled. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“What I mean is, are you… are you okay?”
Yup. It was that unbelievable.
“Not by a long shot.” He stared at me dispassionately, heaving a sigh. “What I am, Natalie, is pussy-whipped.”
The next day, I dragged Zach to the conservatory for lunch.
I’d always wanted to eat there, but I figured he’d need some time away after the whole burn-Eileen’s-touch-off incident.
We ate poke bowls. Salad instead of rice and extra cucumber for him. Progress.
The day after, we gobbled up branzino on the balcony.
This time, he let me feed him a roasted potato. He glowered, complaining about the grease the entire time.
Still, before the meal ended, I spotted him swallowing another one.
And the following day, I prepared both of us banh mi thit nuong—dousing the sandwiches with extra homemade aioli. I even shoved pâté in them when he wasn’t looking.
I tossed my napkin on my empty plate, reclining against my seat. “What’s your favorite piece of art?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Seriously?” I boomeranged upright. “You collect so much art, and none is your favorite?”
“Nope. Not everything needs to be measured against something else.”
“But…” I frowned. “Everyone has a favorite work of art.”
“Even you?”
“Yup. The Lobster Telephone.”
Dad used to own a replica I’d begged for. Vera had auctioned it off weeks after his death.
Zach paused, mid-bite. “By Dalí?”
It drove me crazy how tiny and measured his bites were.
Thirty-two chews each.
At my nod, he arched a brow. “That would be your favorite.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t answer me, wrapping his lips around the sandwich.
When his scheduled lunch hour ended, I double-checked his plate. He didn’t leave a single crumb.
Every morning, I spent half an hour roaming the grounds, opening every window in the manor to let the sun enter. So Mr. Sun himself would feel warmth for the first time in his life.
I refused to eat in silence, always telling him about my life.
The mother that never was. The father that was—but I could never get enough of. The loneliness.
Seoul. Fencing. Olympic dreams.
How I missed my old life. The one in Asia, far away from my evil stepsisters and stepmother.
He sat there and drank it all in. Like he had to endure human interaction.
Sometimes, when I made myself laugh, he actually recoiled.
Zachary Sun was barely human.
For me to fix him, I had to make him real.
The night before my birthday, I decided to sleep over at Zach’s home.
Guess I’d become addicted to the small indulgences of his many guest rooms. The sprawling firm mattress. The plush pillows. The large dressing table. And the scent of fresh flowers and decorative candles that wafted from every corner.
The chef kept the fridge stocked, and lately, that somehow included things I loved to eat.
Zach left me to my own devices, busy hiding from me then seeking me out spontaneously.
For the first time in nearly two years, I had a long, uninterrupted sleep. No Vera to yell at me to do the dishes. Nor Tabby and Reggie to whine for me to cook breakfast.
Just… peace.
I woke up to delicious silence, blinking my eyes open.
You’re twenty-three.
Congratulations. You made it another year.
Much to your so-called family’s chagrin.
I allowed myself twenty-three seconds to mourn my fencing career. Valentina Vezzali had two Olympic medals by this age.
Every day, my biological clock ticked down. It probably didn’t matter. Showing up at a competition would be shameless.
Next, I flicked the bridge of my nose until I smelled nothing, then spent two minutes convincing myself a waft of Dad’s signature birthday confetti pancakes had drifted by.
I missed them.
I missed him.
And finally, for no logical reason whatsoever, I reached for my phone on the nightstand and checked the messages.
Disappointment tickled my tear ducts when I clicked open my last messages with Dad and found no new ones. He used to leave me a long text every birthday morning, full of affirmations.
By afternoon, I’d arrive to my dorm to a basket full of goodies.
I reread his last texts, though I already had them inked in my brain in permanent marker.
Dad:
Remember Ms. Langer?
Farrow:
My first-grade teacher?
Dad:
That’s the one.
Dad:
She finally got married. I went to her wedding last night.
Dad:
Their vows were perfect. Even the cake was in tiers.
Farrow:
BRB. Bleaching my eyes.
Farrow:
Dad jokes are the worst.
Dad:
We talked about you for a while.
Dad:
(Okay, I bragged about you, and she listened politely.)
Dad:
I’m so proud of you, baby girl. Can’t wait to see you kick ass at your competition this weekend.
Farrow:
Pick a seat in the front this time. :(
Dad:
Promise.
Farrow:
Love you.
Dad:
Love you more.
I sighed, exiting it out of the messages, double-checking that I didn’t accidentally delete them.
I’d grown paranoid when it came to losing tangible memories of Dad. Especially with all of his belongings pawned off.
A single tear threatened to slip down my cheek.
It was true what they said… The happiest memories eventually become the saddest.