He walked with me along the cliffs every morning, on legs that still ached from old injuries. He cooked terrible pancakes. He laughed easily now, and often, a sound I hoped I would never get tired of.
He fired nearly half his household staff, the ones who had mocked me behind his back during his “disguise,” and then, with my encouragement, hired several of them back after giving them a chance to apologize.
And he began, publicly, to tell the truth about himself.
The first time he walked into a charity gala without the suit, the room fell silent. Then the whispers began, but they were different now. Confused. Awed.
The woman in the green gown, who had once shuddered at the thought of him, stared across the ballroom with her mouth open.
I squeezed his hand. “Ready?”
He smiled down at me. “Always.”
PART 8: THE FINAL RECKONING
My father came to the mansion three weeks after the anniversary.
I hadn’t seen him since the wedding. He had sent letters, which I hadn’t opened. Flowers, which I’d given to the hospital. A voicemail, which I had listened to once and never again.
He arrived in an expensive coat, with a nervous, ingratiating smile on his face.
“Clara, my girl!” he said, opening his arms. “Look at you! You look wonderful!”
I did not step into them.
“Hello, Dad.”
