Just then, the sharp sound of footsteps approached, followed by a cold voice.
“What are you all doing?”
I looked up and locked eyes with Kylie.
She pushed through the crowd, hurrying toward me. Her gaze swept over me, disbelief clouding her expression.
“Brody Jameson, y-you’re still alive?”
“Does my being alive disappoint you?” I asked coldly, meeting her eyes without flinching.
Even after six years, she was still breathtaking, as if time had never touched her. She looked exactly like she did the day we married.
But the tenderness in her eyes was gone. In its place was something cold, unfamiliar.
She was still the same on the outside. But her heart had changed.
“Y-You’re my dad?”
My daughter looked at me, stunned.
And then, without warning, she threw herself into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Daddy, I missed you so much. Why did you only come back now? I dream about you every night, but Mom burned all your photos. I can’t even remember what you look like in my dreams.”
I gently and sorrowfully stroked my daughter’s hair, letting her release all her grievances in my arms.
Then I looked up, my eyes dark with hatred, my voice cold as steel.