Chapter 11
By the end of the week, The Margaret Foundation for Empowered Women launched with a bang. We had press releases, polished PR statements, and sponsorships from luxury brands. I gave interviews, spoke in soft tones, wore white dresses and barely–there makeup. The media called me “a modern–day phoenix rising from heartbreak.”
And to give it that final push?
I leaked a video.
It looked like someone secretly filmed it through the hospital door. Me, curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow and crying softly. Voice cracking just enough to seem real.
“She was like a friend,” I whispered on tape. “But she hated me so much, and she tried to ruin everything.”
It went viral in an hour. Comments flooded in. Women across the country posted their own pain under my foundation’s hashtag. And right on cue, Hakeem held a press conference. “She’s the strongest woman I know,” he said, standing tall beside me in that tailored black suit, hand over mine. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure no one lays a finger on her again.”
He was so good at playing the part.
He always had been.
LATER THAT night, I told him I needed to “get some air,” and he let me go without asking questions. I took the black car. Straight to a private villa tucked in a quiet cliffside area no press could reach. And when I walked in, there he was.
Senator Lawrence.
My father.
The same man who left my mother bleeding in the kitchen while I hid under the table. The same man who raised his fist more than he ever raised his voice.
He didn’t stand when I walked in. Just poured himself a drink and muttered, “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
I sat across from him, crossed my legs, and stared straight through him. “You’re funding the Mastersons through shell companies. Don’t deny it. I checked.”
He smirked. “And you’re the pretty face they pinned to the brand. Funny how things come full circle.”
I took out the folder I’d brought, laid it on the table. Inside were photos. Documents. Wire transfers. All traced. All blackmail–ready.
“I don’t need a father. I don’t want one. But I do need power. And so do you. So here’s how
it’s gonna
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I laid out the plan.
He’d keep funding. I’d keep the public clean. He stays in office. I stay in front of the
cameras.
“And Harmony?” he asked, almost bored.
I stood, walked over to the window, and watched the ocean waves crash against the rocks like they were trying to climb out. Then I whispered it, low and final.
“We’ll make sure she never sets foot in this country again.”
And I meant every word.
HARMONY’S POV
I woke up to the sound of waves. Not crashing. Just steady. Gentle. Like the sea itself forgot how to be violent. The air was warm and salt–heavy, and the sheets under me were clean. Too clean to be a hospital. Too soft to be in Hakeem’s prison.
My eyes blinked open slowly. Ceiling fan spun lazily above me. Cream walls. Open windows. A hint of citrus. A scent I didn’t recognize but instantly felt safe in. My body still ached, especially my arm, the one I carved open to get that damn tracker out. But I was alive. Bandaged. Safe.
I sat up slowly, dizzy for a second. Then the door opened.
He walked in like he owned the silence. Cassian Varela. Black linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, a glass of water in one hand.
“Good,” he said, walking over. “You’re up.”
I stared at him. “You…”
He passed me the glass and sat down across the room. “Yeah. Me.”
And then it came flooding back.
Flashbacks.
I was sitting in the corner hallway outside the funeral home. I was frozen. People kept offering tissues like that would fix it. And Hakeem? I couldn’t find him.
Then a woman in a janitor uniform walked by. Didn’t say much. Just slid a small folded piece of paper into my hand like it was gum.
“If you ever wanna escape,” she whispered, “call him. Nobody- not even Mr. Masterson- can stop it.”
I didn’t look at it. Just stuffed it into my pocket and cried harder.
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It was days later. Margaret had moved back into Hakeem’s life like a damn ghost. Everything about her became holy. Untouchable. And me? I was an afterthought. A damn
punching bag for her fake tears.
That night, I was standing in the walk–in closet. Crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. My hands trembled as I pulled out the paper. The number still burned in my head.
I used a burner phone. One I’d hidden behind a loose brick in the wall. My last backup. Just
in case.
I called. It rang once.
Then a man answered.
“Cassian Varela,” he said, voice like gravel and smoke.
I couldn’t even speak at first. Just let out a breath.
He waited. Didn’t rush. Didn’t push.
“I’m…” I finally whispered, “I’m Harmony.”
He went quiet. Then: “Good. I was hoping you’d call.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I think I’m losing everything. I think I’m losing myself.”
“Don’t tell me what’s wrong,” he said calmly. “Not on this line. I’m texting you a secure number. It’s my right hand’s phone. Use the burner. Speak clearly. And whatever you need? I’ll move the world to get it done.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Why would you help me?”
“Because your father saved mine,” he said. “And I don’t let debts go unpaid.”
I just whispered, “Thank you.” And then I hung up.
That was it. No plan. Just pain. And the beginning of everything that followed.
Back in the present, I looked at Cassian again, and he was still just sitting there, arms resting on his knees like he had nowhere more important to be.
“I didn’t even know what I was asking for,” I said. “I just called.”
He nodded. “You didn’t have to explain. I heard it in your voice.”
“You never asked for anything in return.”
“Didn’t have to,” he said. “I told you before. Your dad and mine had a bond. Blood couldn’t cut it. He made me swear I’d protect you if anything ever happened.”
“And you just waited?” I asked. “All those years?”
