Page 90 of Hunter

The first thing that catches my attention is a white envelope with my name scrawled on it in Dad’s neat cursive handwriting.

My heart drums loudly in my chest, each beat echoing like a warning.

I grab the envelope, clutching it to my chest as if someone might burst in and steal it from me. My fingers tremble, and tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I cross the room, walk around Maxim’s desk, and sink into his chair.

His scent surrounds me—smokey caramel with a hint of vanilla and the subtle undertone of oak from hisfavorite whiskey. It wraps around me like a comforting hug, momentarily grounding me.

For the first time since I entered the office, my nerves settle, if only slightly.

I close my eyes and press the envelope against my chest. Then, as if the moment of calm has given me courage, I rip it open with a desperation I can’t explain. The paper inside crinkles under my shaky fingers as I pull it free.

THIRTY-FIVE

DAD’S LETTER

Pumpkin,

There’s so much I want to say to you, so many words I should have spoken before you left, so many things I wish I could have shared in person. But I was a coward. I couldn’t bear the thought of you looking at me with hatred in your eyes or the idea I might be the reason you didn’t chase your dreams kept me silent. But now, here I am, writing this, because I can’t hold it in any longer.

I see you now, living your best life in New York, chasing your dreams, and, for once, putting yourself first. I couldn’t be prouder of the woman you’ve become and all you’ve accomplished. You will achieve greatness, princesa. I know it in my heart.

If you’re reading this, though, it means my disease has caught up with me. It means I’m no longer here with you or your mother. It breaks my heart, but I need you to know—I didn’t want you to worry. Before you left for New York, I was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. Your mother and I made the difficult choice not to tell you or your sister. Actually, I made the decision and didn’t give your mom a choice. I didn’t want either of you to carry that burden, especially when I chose not to seek treatment.

You would have fought me, pumpkin. You would have dropped everything to make sure I got the help I needed. But, as doctors, we both know the prognosis. At stage four, there’s no hope. If I had caught it sooner, I might have tried treatment, but at this point, the cancer has spread too far. There’s no point in putting myself through that or putting you all through that pain. The decision was made to live what little time I have left in peace with the time I have remaining.

I asked your mother not to tell you until after I was gone, and I hope you understand why.

I’m not sorry for keeping the cancer from you. I’m not sorry for keeping parts of my life separate from you and your sister. I’ve never been ashamed of the lengths I went to protect you all. What I do regret is missing so much of your life while you were growing up. The hurried dinners, the ceremonies I had to leave early, the plays I missed, the nights I wasn’t there to tuck you in. I will carry that regret with me for the rest of my life. But I can’t change the past, Sophia. I did what I had to do to keep my family safe, and that’s what matters.

Now, there’s something else you need to know. By now, you’ve probably met Maxim Volkov. I’ve left him a letter with your mother, giving him permission to share with you everything about the life I kept hidden. He will explain the contract I made with his father many years ago. I don’t need to go into details; he should have done that by now. But know this: I’m not ashamed of the choices I made. This world is dark, filled with people capable of horrible things—things you can’t even begin to imagine. I’ve seen it all, Sophia, more than I could ever explain.

Now, a warning about Maxim: He’s going to be part of your life whether you like it or not. He has a hard exterior, and at times, his actions can seem questionable, but don’t let that scare you away. He’s a man of honor with a heart of gold despite everything he has been through. I wouldn’t leave your safety in the hands of a stranger, and he won’t hurt you. He’ll protect you, just as I would.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to face you. I’m sorry the only way I could gather the courage to tell you all these things was through a letter, a letter you’re probably reading after I’m already gone, with so many questions left unanswered.

Take care of yourself, pumpkin. Live the life you want, not the one I wanted for you. I know your mother and I pushed you, and we didn’t always go about it the right way. We wanted what was best for you, but we made mistakes. I see that now.You’ve done what you needed to do for yourself, and I couldn’t be prouder.

Don’t let the grief of losing me make you think you need to follow in my footsteps to honor me. You’ve already made me proud by standing up for yourself. Keep going, Sophia. Keep being the strong woman you are. Don’t lose sight of that strength. You are, and always will be, the greatest joy of my life.

I love you so much. Always have. Always will.

Dad

THIRTY-SIX

SOPHIA

Iblink several times, trying to clear away the paralyzing numbness that has taken control of my body and the tears that won’t stop falling. But it’s useless. My brain is a fog, as though it’s shut down for the day. It won’t send simple commands like “move” or “stop crying” to my body. I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now. My heart is racing, working overtime to keep up with the tidal wave of emotions coursing through me.

I read the letter again. Over and over. Each time, I dissect every word, every sentence, every paragraph of the wrinkled, tear-streaked paper.

My heart rips open from the weight of it all. My dad had cancer. He died from cancer—not a heart attack. An anguished sob escapes me, raw and unrelenting. He died from cancer—stage four pancreatic cancer. And my mom knows. Maxim knows. The grief I thought I had buried months ago swallows me whole. My mom knows. Maxim knows. Maxim knows. The hurt, the anger, the sadness, the betrayal—they feel like cement blocks stacked on top of my chest, pressing down so hard, I can’t breathe, no matter how desperately I try to gasp for air.

No. No. No, this can’t be real. I shake my head violently, willing the words to disappear. This letter is a joke. It has to be a joke. My dad didn’t have cancer. He died from a heart attack.

I try to crumple the letter, to throw it away, but my hands won’t cooperate. They tremble, the paper crackling in my grip. With a frustrated sigh, I skim the letter again, because, apparently, I enjoy torturing myself. I close my eyes, the weight of it all too much to bear. This is my dad’s handwriting.

My heart races, thumping wildly as my breathing becomes shallow and frantic. The rage surges inside me, swallowing every other emotion. I cling to it, pushing everything else aside. Anger is the only thing that won’t break me right now. I need answers.

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