Page 5 of Forced Bratva Hostage

“It's not…. I'm just surprised, that's all.”

“Don't be. I'm just not interested in romance at the moment.” I wrapped the book in a paper bag, my hand moving with precision. “Here you go. Your dose of 19th-century romance. Let me know what you think.”

“Thanks, Wren.” She accepted it with a warm smile. “Why aren't you interested in romance at the moment?” She paused, as though reevaluating her words. “Sorry, I guess that's personal.” Her voice leveled out, probably thinking she'd crossed a line.

“No, no, it's alright,” I replied, exhaling softly. “Let's just say that I've had my fair share of heartbreak a couple of times, and now I'm just shielding what's left of my heart.” I edged closer, my voice dropping to a hushed tone. “Men can be bad news most times, you know.”

“Maybe.” She casually shrugged her shoulders. “But not all of them. In fact, some of them can be…God sent.” The slight pause came when she held my gaze.

“Well.” I straightened, a small grin playing on my lips. “Until I meet one of those ‘God-sent’ ones, I'm good as is.” I winked at her.

Lorena laughed, grabbing her backpack from the countertop. “See you around, Wren.” She flung it over her shoulder and headed out the door.

As I watched her leave, images of Harrison Everett—my father—flashed in my head. He wasn't exactly father of the year, but he was the closest to a family that I had.

Growing up, I’d had the perfect family: a mother who loved and adored me and a father who cherished his wife and daughter.

However, things took a turn for the worst when I was ten.

I’d lost my mom to cancer, and Dad, unable to cope with this loss, decided it was better to find comfort at the bottom of a bottle than face reality. He'd come home drunk every night—completely wasted and reeking of alcohol.

His excuse for becoming a drunk was that a part of him had died the day he lost my mom. And for a long time, I really believed that until I realized that he was just being selfish and cowardly.

He wasn't the only one who lost her. I did, too, and during that period, I was all alone, hurting, and in desperate need of my father's love and attention. But he was lost far too deep in his own grief that he forgot I existed.

He neglected me completely, like I wasn't human, too—like I couldn't feel the pain of losing her or the agony of his abandonment.

For years, I’d had to fend for myself like an orphan, even while living under the same roof as him. I had to tolerate his drinking habits and put up with his gambling problem until I moved out of the house when I turned eighteen.

Watching my father self-destruct had shattered my notions of what it meant to be a good man. His irresponsibility was the major reason I regarded most men as bad news.

Despite his bad behavior and habits, I still longed for a better father-daughter relationship with him. I knew he could do better, and I just wished he would go back to being the man he to be when Mom was alive.

By the end of the day, I wrapped up at the store and headed home.

As the Uber pulled over by the sidewalk, my brows narrowed at the figure standing outside my apartment. The door gave a soft click and opened, my foot stepping out on the pavement. I looked closer at the unexpected visitor leaning against my wall as the Uber drove away.

My brows arched instantly when he turned and faced me, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Dad?” I muttered, adjusting the bag slung over my shoulder as I walked over to the front door.

My forehead creased, my heels softly clicking on the pavement as I glided over to him, wondering what he was doing there.

The last time I saw him was two years ago; he’d been in some sort of trouble, and he apparently needed my help getting out of it. The moment I gave him the money he asked for, he vanished. I hadn't seen or heard from him until now.

Should I be glad that he was okay, or should I be mad that he ghosted me for two long years?

My brows knitted together, mirroring the turmoil within me.

“Hey, Wren.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and his lips curled up into a smile, his voice a low whisper.

Seeing that grin on his face melted my heart and dispelled whatever pent-up rage I had holed up inside me.

“You look good,” he remarked, his gaze lingering over me as I halted in front of him.

My cheeks flushed at his words, my eyes meeting his. “You don't look so bad yourself,” I said, my gaze roaming over his features, lingering on the sharp jawline, the hazel brown eyes, and the mob of messy hair.

A smile spread across his chiseled face.

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