Chapter 2: The Man Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
The security guard led me past the dressing rooms, down a narrow corridor, and through a door marked PRIVATE STAFF ONLY.
My damaged wing dragged behind me.
Every few steps, another crystal fell from the torn fabric and clicked against the polished floor.
I wanted to stop and collect them.
I wanted to go home, lock my bedroom door, and sleep until the night became a distant memory.
Instead, I followed the guard.
“What's your name?”” I asked.
“Daniel.””
“Daniel, who is waiting for me?””
He pressed a hand against his earpiece.
“I was told not to discuss it.””
“Is he a journalist?””
“No.””
“Someone from the competition?””
“No.””
I stopped walking.
“Then why does he know my mother?””
Daniel turned toward me.
For the first time, his professional expression softened.
“I think you should hear it from him.””
He opened a door at the end of the corridor.
Inside was a small private lounge with dark wooden walls, a leather sofa, and a table covered with untouched glasses of water.
A single lamp illuminated the far corner.
A man stood beside the window with his back toward us.
He wore a charcoal suit. His shoulders were broad, but his posture suggested exhaustion. One hand rested against the windowsill, and the other held a photograph.
He didn't turn when we entered.
Daniel cleared his throat.
“Sir, Miss Carter is here.””
The man closed his eyes.
For several seconds, he remained completely still.
Then he spoke.
“Thank you, Daniel. Please give us a moment.””
The guard looked at me.
“If you need anything, I'll be right outside.””
I nodded, though my mouth had gone dry.
The door closed.
Silence filled the room.
I stared at the man's back.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“You wanted to see me?””
He lowered the photograph.
“Yes.””
His voice was deep.
Strangely familiar.
Something about the way he pronounced the word made my stomach twist.
“Who are you?””
He drew a slow breath.
“I've been waiting a long time to answer that question.””
I almost laughed from nerves.
“Well, you have the wrong person if you're looking for someone who can help you. I'm seventeen, my stepmother hates me, and my stepsister just destroyed my championship trophy.””
The man flinched at the word stepmother.
Then he turned slightly.
I could see the side of his face.
A faint scar crossed his left temple. His hair was dark at the roots but threaded with gray. There were deep lines around his eyes, and his jaw looked tense enough to crack.
He looked older than I expected.
But there was something about him.
Something in the shape of his nose.
The curve of his ear.
The small indentation in his chin.
My breath caught.
I took one step forward.
“No.””
The man turned fully.
I stared at him.
The photograph slipped from his fingers and landed on the carpet.
I recognized the face before my mind could accept it.
I had seen that face in the framed pictures Vanessa kept locked in a drawer.
I had seen it in an old photograph of my mother standing beside a man in a blue shirt, both of them laughing beneath a summer sky.
I had traced the outline of that face in my childhood memories until I was afraid I had forgotten what it really looked like.
My knees weakened.
“Daddy?””
The man's mouth trembled.
“Nia.””
I shook my head.
“No.””
He took a step toward me.
“Sweetheart—”
“DON'T!””
My voice broke so violently that he stopped.
I backed away, clutching the torn fabric at my shoulder.
“No. You can't call me that. You can't look like him. You can't—”
Tears blurred my vision.
“You're dead.””
He swallowed.
“I know what you've been told.””
“You're dead!””
“I know.””
“You died ten years ago!””
He lowered his head.
For a moment, he looked like a man who had spent years rehearsing an apology and had finally discovered that no words could make it sufficient.
Then he whispered, “I'm sorry.””
I laughed.
It was a terrible sound, half sob and half disbelief.
“Sorry?””
He nodded.
“You don't get to say sorry!””
My hands shook.
“Where were you when Mom died? Where were you when Vanessa made me sleep in that tiny room because Brianna wanted mine? Where were you when I begged someone to come to my school performances?””
He closed his eyes.
“Where were you when I thought nobody in this world wanted me?””
His face crumpled.
“Nia, I—”
“No!””
I struck the table with my palm. A glass tipped over and rolled onto its side.
“You let me believe you were dead!””
He didn't defend himself.
That somehow made me angrier.
“Say something!””
He looked at me.
“My name is Michael Carter,” he said quietly.
“I'm your father.””
I stared at him.
“Prove it.””
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small leather wallet.
Inside was an old photograph of my mother holding me as a baby. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was smiling at someone outside the frame.
On the back, in faded blue ink, were four words.
For Michael, from home.
My mother had written them.
I knew her handwriting because I had spent hours copying it from the birthday cards she left me before she died.
I took the photograph with trembling fingers.
“How did you get this?””
“It was mine.””
“Vanessa said everything was destroyed in the accident.””
Michael's expression changed.
“What accident?””
I stared at him.
“The car accident. The one that killed you.””
He went pale.
For several seconds, he didn't speak.
Then he pulled out a chair and sat down heavily.
“Nia,” he said, “I was never in a car accident.””
The room seemed to tilt.
I grabbed the edge of the table.
“What?””
“I didn't die.””
“You're lying.””
“I wish I were.””
I stared at the man who had supposedly been buried ten years earlier.
He looked at me with red-rimmed eyes.
“I was told you and Vanessa were safe. I was told your mother had made arrangements before she died. I was told that if I tried to contact you, I would put you in danger.””
“Who told you that?””
He hesitated.
“Vanessa.””
I felt something cold move through my chest.
“My stepmother?””
He nodded.
“She contacted me after your mother's death. She said you were suffering, that you needed stability, and that the best thing I could do was stay away until everything had settled.””
I shook my head.
“That's impossible. She told me you died.””
“She told me you believed I had abandoned you.””
I stared at him.
Neither of us spoke.
For ten years, I had carried the grief of a dead father.
For ten years, he had apparently lived somewhere in the world believing his daughter was better off without him.
But something didn't fit.
“If you were alive,” I whispered, “why didn't you come looking for me?””
His eyes dropped to the photograph.
“I did.””
My heart hammered.
“What do you mean?””
“I tried to see you. More than once.””
“Then why didn't you?””
He looked toward the closed door, as though he expected someone to be listening.
“Because every time I came close, someone made sure I couldn't reach you.””
I gripped the back of the chair.
“Who?””
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope.
It was old, its edges worn and softened by years of handling.
He placed it on the table.
“I brought this because you deserve to know the truth.””
I didn't touch it.
“What is it?””
“Letters.””
“Letters from who?””
“Me.””
I stared at the envelope.
He pushed it toward me.
“I wrote to you every birthday. Every Christmas. Every year on the anniversary of your mother's death. I wrote when you turned eleven, when you turned twelve, when you started secondary school.””
His voice cracked.
“I wrote when you turned seventeen.””
I shook my head.
“I never received anything.””
“I know.””
He opened the envelope and removed a stack of letters tied together with a faded ribbon.
Each one had my name on the front.
Nia.
In different handwriting styles, at different stages of a man's life, he had written my name again and again.
Some envelopes had been returned.
Others had no postal markings at all.
One had a birthday date written across the corner.
My seventeenth birthday.
I touched it with one finger.
“What happened to them?””
Michael looked at me.
“Vanessa told me you didn't want to hear from me.””
My throat tightened.
“She said that?””
“She said you blamed me for your mother's death. She said you had asked her never to let me contact you.””
I stared at him.
“I never said that.””
“I know that now.””
“Then how did you find me?””
He glanced at the photograph on the table.
“Your competition was broadcast online. Someone sent me the recording.””
My breath caught.
“Who?””
“A woman named Eleanor Hayes. She knew your mother.””
I remembered the name.
Eleanor Hayes was one of the judges. She had stood during the announcement and applauded above her head.
“She sent you the competition video?””
“She sent me a message. She said she recognized your mother's techniques in your dress, and she asked whether I knew you were competing.””
Michael rubbed his forehead.
“I didn't even know you were designing clothes. I didn't know what school you attended or what you liked to eat. I didn't know whether you still had the little stuffed rabbit your mother bought you.””
I looked at him.
“I still have it.””
His eyes filled with tears.
“I'm glad.””
The tenderness in his voice made me want to scream.
I wanted him to be a stranger.
I wanted him to be a monster I could hate without remembering the man who used to carry me on his shoulders.
Instead, I remembered everything.
The way he used to whistle while making pancakes.
The way he tucked the blanket beneath my chin.
The way he promised that nothing bad would ever happen to me as long as he was around.
Then I remembered waking up in a house without him.
“Why tonight?”” I asked.
“Why did you wait until tonight to come to me?””
“I didn't know if you would believe me.””
“You could have come to my house.””
“I tried.””
“When?””
He looked down.
“Three weeks ago.””
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?””
“I went to the house where you grew up. Vanessa answered the door.””
I could almost picture it.
Vanessa in her cream suit, standing in the doorway with her perfectly controlled smile.
“She told me you were away at a boarding school,” Michael continued.
“She said you had been adopted by another family and wanted nothing to do with your past.””
I stared at him.
“I live in her house.””
“I know that now.””
“How?””
“Eleanor found a public registration for the competition. Your address was on the entry form. When I learned the truth, I came here tonight.””
He leaned forward.
“I wasn't going to leave without seeing you.””
My anger faltered for one dangerous second.
Then I remembered the trophy.
The torn wing.
Vanessa's voice telling me I owed her everything.
I pulled the envelope toward me.
“Why would she do this?””
Michael's expression hardened.
“Because your mother left something behind.””
“What?””
He hesitated.
“A trust.””
The word meant little to me at first.
Then he explained that my mother had inherited a substantial amount of money from her family. Before she died, she had established a trust intended to support my education and provide me with financial security when I became an adult.
Vanessa had been appointed temporary guardian.
Michael had been named the person responsible for overseeing the trust with an independent trustee.
After my mother's death, Vanessa told him the trust had been dissolved to pay medical expenses and debts.
He had believed her.
“I didn't know how much money was involved,” he admitted.
“Your mother handled the paperwork. I trusted Vanessa to explain what had happened.””
“And she didn't.””
“No.””
I thought about the cheap clothes I had worn while Brianna received designer dresses. The sewing supplies I bought with money earned from hemming trousers for neighbors. The nights I stayed awake wondering whether I would be allowed to attend college.
“Did she steal it?”” I whispered.
Michael didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Instead, he reached into the envelope and removed a document with an official seal.
“This is a copy of your mother's trust agreement.””
I scanned the first page.
Most of the language was too complicated for me to understand, but I recognized my mother's signature.
Then I saw a name.
*VANESSA CARTER — TEMPORARY GUARDIAN AND ADMINISTRATIVE CONTACT.*
Below it was another name.
*MICHAEL CARTER — CO-TRUSTEE.*
I looked up.
“She told you the trust was gone.””
“Yes.””
“And she told me you were dead.””
“Yes.””
My hands began to shake again.
“Why would she lie to both of us?””
Michael's expression became grim.
“Because if we had spoken to each other, we might have discovered what she was doing.””
I stared at the document.
A horrible possibility was beginning to take shape.
But before I could ask another question, someone knocked sharply on the door.
Michael stood.
“Stay here.””
The handle turned.
Daniel, the security guard, entered with a pale expression.
“Mr. Carter, I'm sorry, but there's a problem.””
Michael moved toward him.
“What kind of problem?””
Daniel glanced at me.
Then he lowered his voice.
“The woman who was escorted out earlier has returned. She's demanding to see Nia.””
My blood turned cold.
“Vanessa?””
Daniel nodded.
“She says she has an emergency court order concerning the girl.””
Michael went completely still.
“What does the order say?””
Daniel swallowed.
“She claims Nia is being unlawfully detained and must be returned to her custody immediately.””
I stared at the man who was supposed to be dead.
Michael looked back at me.
For the first time since I had entered the room, I saw something other than grief in his eyes.
Fear.
Not fear of Vanessa.
Fear of what she might do next.
He turned toward Daniel.
“Lock the door.””
Then he looked at me and said the words that shattered the last piece of the childhood I remembered.
“Nia, your stepmother isn't just hiding your mother's money.””
He took the trust document from my trembling hands.
May you like
“She's been preparing for the day you turn eighteen.””
And outside the room, Vanessa began pounding on the door.
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