Page 144 of In Shadows We Dance

The board won't wait.

The doctors know what they're doing. We’ve given our lawyer power of attorney, so he will sign whatever they need.

Each phrase became another crack in my foundation. Each broken promise another brick in the wall I built around myself.

Money materializes in my account regularly, their sole acknowledgment of my existence. Sterile. Empty. Financial transactions masquerading as parenthood.

My hand shakes a little as I stare at his number. It’s been seven years since my grandmother died, seven years since the last time I asked him for anything. Seven years of distance and meticulous control over every aspect of my life.

The east wing remains untouched, her legacy preserved exactly as she left it. Photographs from her performing years. The barre where she'd practiced that final morning. Her old pointe shoes, pink satin worn to gray. The music box that still plays Swan Lake, though I haven't wound it since the funeral.

I remember standing alone by her grave, eleven years old and finally understanding what she had protected me from all those years. Father left halfway through the service for a board meeting. Mother disappeared to freshen up, never returning.

The last time I'd seen my grandmother smile was watching a performance the week before her stroke—Giselle, her favorite. She'd gripped my hand during the mad scene, tears in her eyes. Three days later, she collapsed in her studio. Six months ofwatching her fade followed that, while my father treated her death like another business merger to manage.

That’s when I learned how to find everyone’s secrets. The need to know everything, manage everything, predict everything became an obsession. As if perfect vigilance could prevent another unexpected loss. As if enough preparation could stop the world from shattering again.

My thumb hovers over his name. Nausea coils in my gut. Every instinct screams to find another way. Any other way. I've spent seven years ensuring I'd never be that helpless again.

But there isn't one.

For Ileana, I'll swallow this poison. For her, I'll break every vow I made to myself about never needing him again.

The screen blurs. When did I last speak to him? Three weeks ago? Four? A meaningless exchange about college applications destined for the trash. His attention divided, meetings beckoning. Perpetual distractions. Just like when she was dying in the hospital, and he couldn't be bothered to visit more than twice in six months. I was collected by the family lawyer, or his secretary, every couple of days to go and see her.

My grandmother's voice whispers through memory.

"Forgiveness isn't about them, darling. It's about freeing yourself."

I never managed that part. Never wanted to. Instead, I built myself into someone who needed nothing, no one. Someone who could predict and prevent every possible loss.

But his influence could end this siege. His power could shield Ileana. For the first time since my grandmother's death, I need something only he can provide. The knowledge burns like acid in my throat.

I press call before I can change my mind. Two rings that feel like forever.

"Wren? It's the middle of the night."

Bewilderment colors his voice. His ghost of a son, materializing at midnight. Acid churns in my stomach. Independence becamemy armor after losing my grandmother. She taught me to stand tall, but she also taught me to acknowledge when I needed something beyond what I could control.

"I need your help."

There’s a long pause, tension crackling in the air between us. When he finally speaks, there’s a subtle hint of alarm in his voice. "What kind of trouble are you in?"

"Federal agents have been watching the house. They've been here for days."

"The missing girl situation?" His voice transforms to corporate authority, his natural state. "They contacted me. Said you were interfering in an ongoing investigation."

"Yeah. But they omitted the essential details." I brace myself against memories of all the times he's dismissed my words. "She's eighteen. Left their protection willingly. Now they want to cage her again. It's wrong." I keep my explanation purposely clipped.

"Explain." Years of absence compress into one word.

Air fills my lungs as I tell him everything I know. About the agents who manufactured new identities for James, Annetta, and Isabella sixteen years ago, how they rewrote her entire existence, and their determination to imprison her again despite her desire for freedom.

The void between words aches until his voice returns. "You're certain about this?"

"Yes. I have evidence. Paper trails, financial records. Everything they want buried."

I can almost hear him considering his options, weighing risks against this unprecedented request from his perpetually independent son. My grandmother's voice whispers in my memory.

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