“She said… I don’t deserve a warm bed,” she murmured into his shoulder. “She said loud girls sleep downstairs.”
Jonathan closed his eyes.
During his two-week trip, he had called three times. Each time, his wife, Vanessa Whitmore, had answered with calm reassurance.
“Emily’s fine,” she would say sweetly. “Don’t worry. She misses you.”
And he had believed her.
Because it was easier to believe.
Three years earlier, Emily’s biological mother, Rachel, had passed away unexpectedly. Jonathan had convinced himself that remarrying meant rebuilding stability.
Now he understood something devastating.
He hadn’t rebuilt anything.
He had left his daughter alone.
He carried Emily upstairs, past framed art, imported chandeliers, and rooms filled with silent luxury. When he opened her bedroom door, his stomach dropped.
The bed was perfectly made. The princess comforter stretched smooth and untouched. The stuffed animals arranged in a perfect row — lightly dusted.
It looked like a showroom.
Not a child’s room.
He didn’t lay her there.
Instead, he brought her to his own bedroom, tucked her beneath layers of blankets, and sat beside her.
“Why were you sleeping in the kitchen?” he asked gently.
Emily bit her lip.