Page 30 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

I shouldn’t, but I push it open anyway.

The first thing I notice is how perfect everything is. Not in a tidy or lived-in way—more like someone staged it for a press shoot. The books are alphabetized. The magazines lined up like soldiers. A single pen rests on a leather blotter like it’s afraid to be used.

And the photos...

They’re everywhere. Aidan shaking hands with senators. At press events. Flanked by celebrities, athletes, CEOs.

But Cole?

Two photos.

Both decades old.

One shows Aidan holding a toddler on a beach—probably for a Christmas card. The other’s so tightly cropped, Cole’s face is half lost in the frame.

I move closer.

I’ve heard Aidan’s podcast before. Years ago, I used to cling to it like gospel. Back when we were far more destitute and bouncing between the worst motels, I’d play episodes to fall asleep. His voice felt like stability. His advice—stories about fatherhood, forgiveness, healing—felt like something I could believe in.

Until it started to hurt.

Because whatever version of fatherhood he was selling? I’d never have it.

So I stopped listening.

But now, even after just a few days in this house, I’m starting to wonder ifheever had it either.

Because whatever he claimed to have with Cole back then?

I don’t feel it now.

They barely speak. They never laugh. Cole doesn’t flinch when Aidan walks into a room. It’s not hate. It’s distance. Like the bond Aidan sold to the world doesn’t exist anymore—if it ever did.

A soft knock.

I spin to see the housekeeper in the doorway, her expression polite but firm.

“I’m sorry, miss. Mr. Dawson doesn’t allow guests in his office without permission.”

“I got turned around,” I lie. “Was looking for the kitchen.”

“It’s just down the hall.” She pauses. “Let me know if you’d like me to walk you there.”

“No need,” I say quickly, already moving.

I make it halfway before I spot Cole through the front windows—hoodie on, keys spinning in one hand as he slips out the front door.

No goodbye. No explanation.

And maybe I shouldn’t care.

But my feet move before my brain decides anything.

I grab my mom’s keys from the hook and trail him, keeping just far enough behind.

He weaves through quiet roads and storefronts until he pulls into a brick strip mall.

Hollow & Ink, the sign reads.

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