Page 69 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

Her eyes flick to Theo once more, lingering, and I catch the flicker of something—something darker in the way her gaze narrows.

“We should be focused on honoring my husband’s memory,” Trista continues, her voice trembling with the weight of her melodramatic grief. “But it’s hard to do that when others come here to stir up conflict. To make a spectacle of what should be a time of peace.”

My heart races, not with anger, but with something heavier, more suffocating. Outsider. Intruder. Imposter. All words I’ve heard, all feelings I’ve buried deep for too long. Trista’s carefully crafted martyrdom is only amplifying what I’ve always known: I don’t belong here. Not in this world, not among these people.

I sit straighter, willing myself not to let the heat rise in my chest, not to let the suffocating weight of this family’s cruelty take root again.

She’s watching me, like a predator sizing up her prey, waiting for me to crack. She’ll twist whatever I say or do into another piece of the drama she’s creating.

“I just…I just wanted a peaceful life with him,” Trista continues, voice lowering into a delicate sob. She clutches her handkerchief as though it might be the only thing keeping her upright, even though her back is as straight as ever.

“I gave him everything. My love, my loyalty. I tried to make him happy, to give him a family, to keep the peace.”

She pauses, scanning the room as if searching for allies, her gaze briefly brushing over the mourners, who watch her, captivated by her theatrics.

A soft sob escapes her lips, and she bites her bottom lip, shaking her head as if the very thought of it is unbearable. And then, just as the room seems on the verge of breaking into collective sympathy, she lifts her chin, eyes locking onto me once more.

"But there are some people who just can’t seem to understand the importance of family,” she says, her voice rising just enough to ensure the words carry. “Some people who would rather tear everything down just to make themselves feel important.That’sthe kind of selfishness that ruins families.”

The words land with a thud, echoing in the room, and I feel the eyes of every single person turn toward me. My pulse quickens, and for a brief moment, I think I might choke on the weight of the silence that follows. The room holds its breath, and I feel every eye in the room burn through me.

She’s no longer pretending to mourn. She’s painting me as the villain, the one who’s come to ruin her perfect life, her perfect marriage, her perfect family.

I swallow hard, but I don’t flinch. I won’t give her the satisfaction. I won’t become part of her twisted story.

Trista lets the silence drag on, her eyes never leaving mine. She seems to savor the weight of the tension before continuing, voice laced with false sincerity, “I just...I just don’t understand why some people—” She glances at me again, then quickly turns away, “—can’t leave well enough alone.”

I brace myself for what comes next, knowing full well that every word she says from here on will only deepen the divide she’s already tried to create.

But I won’t be her scapegoat. Not today. Never again.

I stand up slowly, feeling the weight of every gaze on me as I make my way to the front, my heels clicking against the marble floor, sharp and sure. Trista’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t stop me. She doesn’t want me to leave—not now. She wants me to fight. To engage.

But I won’t give her that satisfaction.

I stop in front of her, my back straight, my breath steady. “I’m not here to make a spectacle of his memory,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension, low but unwavering. “I’m here because he was my father, and I deserve the right to say goodbye to him. This”—I gesture to the opulent room, the lavish decorations, the staged sorrow—“is not what he would have wanted. Not for me. Not for anyone.”

Her face freezes, and I can see the moment the mask slips. For a heartbeat, the woman who has built an empire on manipulation and control falters. But she quickly regains composure, pressing her lips together in a thin line.

"Don’t pretend you knew him," she hisses, her voice sharp. "You never did. You were never part of this family."

I take a deep breath, my gaze steady on hers. "Maybe that’s the problem," I say, my voice quiet but firm. “Maybe you never wanted me to be."

And with that, I turn on my heel and walk away, the sound of my footsteps the only thing breaking the silence.

As I make my way out of the room, I feel a strange sense of peace settling in. It’s the kind of peace I haven’t felt in years. Maybe this is the moment I finally stop pretending. Maybe this is the moment I walk away from everything that’s never truly been mine.

Theo catches up to me by the door, his hand brushing mine as I step into the quiet of the hallway.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low, concerned.

Theo's hand settles on my shoulder, his touch a tether I never asked for. He stands too close. His refusal to leave, even now, is a violation of my last sanctuary.

"Please, don't." The words scrape raw from my throat, but he doesn't flinch.

"You don't have to go through this alone."

"Alone is how I've lived it, Theo," I shoot back, shaking off his hand. "Alone is how I'll survive it."

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