Sam.

~~~

I stood by the front door, my hand clutching the strap of my worn leather bag like a lifeline, the other hovering uncertainly over the doorknob. My heart pounded so hard it drowned out the oppressive silence of the house. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the knot of unease in my stomach only tightened.

Behind me, I felt Ray's presence before I heard his voice—gentle, cautious like he could sense the weight of my thoughts. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

I turned to face him, my eyes meeting his steady gaze. "I don't know," I admitted, my voice barely audible. "But I have to do it, Ray. I've been avoiding my parents for too long. I can't keep running."

Ray nodded, stepping closer until the warmth of his body was a tangible comfort. He reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek as he tucked a stray wave of hair behind my ear. "I'll be here when you get back," he said, his voice filled with quiet conviction. His touch lingered, his thumb grazing my jawline.

His words were like a balm, soothing the frayed edges of my nerves. I managed a small smile, grateful for the way Ray always seemed to know exactly what I needed, even when I didn't. "Thank you," I whispered, leaning into him. For a moment, I let myself melt into his embrace, seeking sanctuary in the warmth of his touch.

Ray's arms enveloped me, pulling me close until I could feel his heartbeat, steady and reassuring against my chest. "You've got this," he murmured, his lips brushing my temple.

A soft laugh escaped me, shaky but real. "You're sure you're okay staying behind? I hate leaving you with my responsibilities."

He waved off my concern with an easy smile that made my heart ache with love. "I'll be fine. I've got some songs to work on, and I am more than happy to keep an eye on Rose," he teased gently, his tone softening at the mention of my grandmother. "Don't worry about us. Go. Do what you need to do."

I nodded, the knot in my stomach easing ever so slightly. "I'll try not to be gone too long," I said, my hand finally gripping the doorknob with a touch more certainty.

Ray's hand on my arm stopped me just before I turned it. "Hey," he said, his voice more serious now. "I love you."

The tenderness in his gaze caught me off guard, and my throat tightened with emotion. "I know," I whispered, my voice trembling as I leaned up to kiss him. It was a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of love, fear, and the bittersweet hope that everything might turn out okay.

When we finally pulled apart, I looked at him one last time, letting the warmth of his presence settle in my chest. Then, with a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped out into the cool morning air.

I have been sitting on the knowledge that my birth parents were my uncle Keith and his girlfriend Melissa for the last two weeks. I needed time to process it and unpacking helped with that. The truth was that the information explained a lot about the way my parents and even grandparents treated me, but didn't change how I felt about my family. Though I wanted answers and the only way to get them was to talk to my parents.

The chill bit at my skin, sharp and bracing, jolting my senses awake as I walked to my car. Sliding into the driver's seat of my Impala, I let out a slow breath. The familiar creak of the leather upholstery beneath me was oddly comforting, a small piece of stability in an otherwise chaotic morning.

As I started the engine, its low rumble vibrated through me, grounding me. I glanced in the rearview mirror, catching sight of Ray standing in the doorway. He watched me go, a quiet, steady presence in the frame of our home. I gave him a small wave, and he returned it with a nod, his figure growing smaller as I pulled away.

The road stretched out before me, a stripe of asphalt winding toward the city I'd left behind. The towering skyscrapers of Manhattan rose in the distance, growing closer with every mile, each one like a beacon calling me back to the place where everything had started—and where so much had gone wrong.

The hum of the engine filled the silence in the car, a rhythmic reminder that there was no turning back now. As the city skyline loomed closer, memories started surfacing, unbidden and relentless.

The penthouse. It was still there, looming like a relic of a life I'd tried to leave behind. Marble floors, sparkling chandeliers, everything gleaming and perfect—except me. I'd always felt out of place in that place, more like a visitor than a daughter.

I remembered the restless nights as a teenager, sneaking out of the penthouse under the guise of sleepovers or late-night study sessions. My heart would pound with the thrill of rebellion as I climbed into the back seat of some guy's car—Tom's, or whoever was around. We'd drive through the city, music blasting, the neon lights of Manhattan casting fractured patterns on the windows.

Those nights were my escape. I'd roll the windows down, let the wind whip through my hair, and pretend I wasn't the girl trapped in a gilded cage, the one my parents wanted to mold into their perfect little heir. I wasn't polished or poised enough for their world of cocktail parties and high society.

But no matter how far I drove or how loudly I laughed, I'd always end up back in the penthouse. Back under their watchful eyes. Their expectations were like chains, heavy and unyielding, dragging me back to the life they'd planned for me.

And now, as I approached the city, those chains felt tighter than ever.

But I wasn't that girl anymore. I'd built a new life—a life with Raymond, with dreams that were my own. I wasn't going back to the penthouse to be their obedient daughter. I was going back to find answers.

A sigh escaped me as I turned onto the familiar streets of Manhattan. The towering buildings rose like glass and steel sentinels, their windows catching the morning sun and spreading blinding glimmers of light. The streets bustled with life—honking taxis, hurried pedestrians, and the rhythmic pulse of a city that never slowed.

In the distance, I caught a glimpse of Central Park, its greenery a rare, soothing oasis in the chaos of the concrete jungle. A small smile tugged at my lips as I thought of the afternoons my grandmother used to take me there. She'd bring sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, and we'd sit on a blanket under the shade of the trees, talking about the stories I wanted to write.

My grandparents had always encouraged me, filling my head with tales of their own and the adventures my grandpa, Michael, used to dream up. For a moment, the warmth of their unwavering support wrapped around me, a brief reprieve from the chill of the world I was driving into.

But as I approached the penthouse, the warmth evaporated, leaving a familiar tension coiling in my stomach. My hands tightened on the wheel as the sleek glass facade of my parents' building came into view.

The valet, dressed impeccably in a crisp blue uniform, stepped forward as I pulled up to the curb. I handed him the keys, murmuring a quiet thanks. He nodded and slipped into the driver's seat, expertly maneuvering my car out of sight.

Stepping into the lobby, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia and unease. The faint scent of polished wood and expensive perfume greeted me, mingling with the sterile chill of air conditioning.

The marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of hollow lighting, their pristine surface reflecting the sharp click of my boots as I crossed the space. Everything was immaculate as if the building itself demanded perfection—a reflection of my parents' expectations.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and I stepped inside. The ride to the top floor felt endless, each glowing number pulling me closer to a confrontation I wasn't sure I was ready for. By the time the doors opened, my stomach was in tangles, my palms damp against the strap of my bag.

I stepped into the familiar hallway, its muted beige walls and gold accents as cold and unwelcoming as ever. The heavy wooden door to the penthouse loomed ahead, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen.

I could almost hear the faint strains of classical music behind it and could picture my mother perched on the edge of the cream-colored sofa with a martini in hand, while my father was either buried in paperwork or out at his office.

This was it. The truth I had been chasing was on the other side of that door—answers about who I really was, why they'd hidden it from me, and what it all meant for my future. I just hoped Alissa had already left for school; I wasn't ready for another layer of complication.

I raised my hand to knock, but before I could, the door swung open. My mother stood there, every inch the poised and polished woman she always was. Her tailored cream blouse and pearl earrings radiated effortless elegance, and her expression, while composed, held a flicker of surprise.

"Sweetheart," she said smoothly, her voice warm but distant, as though my unannounced visit was a mild inconvenience. "We weren't expecting you."

I forced a tight smile, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. "I need to talk to you and Dad."

Her perfectly arched brow lifted ever so slightly, but she stepped aside without protest, gesturing for me to enter.

As I walked into the penthouse, the familiar scent of her signature perfume wrapped around me, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The living room was immaculate, every detail carefully curated to exude sophistication. The polished wood floors shone under the cascading light of the chandelier, and the cream-colored sofas looked untouched, their cushions perfectly fluffed.

"Is Alissa at school?" I asked, my voice cutting through the silence as we passed the living room.

"She just left," my mother replied, her tone clipped but polite. She moved gracefully toward the kitchen, where a silver coffee service sat atop the marble countertop. She poured herself a cup, the delicate clink of the spoon as she stirred a splash of cream the only sound. "I was planning to come by your grandmother's house today," she added, her eyes focused on the swirling liquid as if it held some profound secret.

I tossed my backpack onto the pristine sofa, the action drawing a sharp glance from her. I ignored it, following her into the kitchen.

"We're fully unpacked now," I said casually, gesturing to the coffee pitcher. "Mind if I pour myself some?"

"Of course, sweetheart," she said, her voice smooth but distant. "Your father will be out in a moment. He's finishing a call. He hasn't had his coffee yet."

I nodded, though she didn't look at me. I poured myself a cup, the warmth of the mug grounding me as I took a seat at the kitchen island. The tension in the air was palpable, coiling around us like an invisible rope, and every second of silence felt like it might snap under the weight of unspoken words.

"Any plans for your birthday?" she asked, sipping the coffee.

I glanced at her, my tone clipped. "Not too sure just yet," I said.

My mother's gaze finally lifted to meet mine, her eyes sweeping over me with that familiar, critical intensity that always set my teeth on edge. "You look tired, Samantha," she said, her tone light but laced with judgment. "Have you been sleeping well?"

I bit back the urge to roll my eyes, my fingers tightening around the coffee mug in my hands. Of course, she'd lead with that. Jennifer always seemed more concerned with appearances than anything that really mattered. "I've been fine, Mom," I said evenly, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "Just busy with everything—moving, taking care of Grandma, adjusting to time zones and all that."

Her expression didn't shift, but I caught the faintest flicker of something—disapproval, maybe. "Of course," she said, her words clipped and precise. "It's a lot to manage. But we all have responsibilities, don't we? Still don't forget to take care of yourself."

The unspoken barb hung between us, heavy and sharp. My chest tightened, and heat rose to my cheeks as frustration bubbled to the surface. This was how it always went. Every interaction with her felt like stepping into a chess match, where each word was a calculated move, designed to maintain her upper hand.

I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my temper in check. "I'm aware, Mom," I said, my voice quieter now, but no less firm. "I'm managing just fine."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze flickering away briefly before returning to me, her expression carefully composed. I knew that look—it was her way of disregarding my words without actually saying it aloud.