Page 128 of Ruined

I don't wait for permission. I slide one arm under her knees and the other around her torso, lifting her against my chest. The wound near my heart protests but I ignore it. She's light in my arms, her body rigid.

I carry her through the crowd, her head resting against my shoulder, but there's no give in her muscles. She's locked herself away somewhere I can't reach.

I place her gently in the passenger seat of the SUV, buckling her in when she makes no move to do it herself. Her eyes stare straight ahead, seeing nothing.

"What's wrong with her?" Jessica asks from the back seat, her voice small.

"Shock," I say, starting the engine. "She'll come back to us when she's ready."

But as I pull away from the Metropolitan Club I'm not sure if that's true. I've seen men break from less. I've seen what happens when grief and guilt collide inside someone's mind.

I reach over and take Evelyn's cold hand in mine. She doesn't grip back. Just lets her fingers lie limply in my palm, like a doll's.

"I'm here," I tell her, knowing she probably can't hear me. "I'm right here."

I stare out the window as the city blurs past but I don't really see anything. My body feels hollow, like someone scooped out everything inside me and left only enough to keep breathing. Dad is dead. My father is dead.

"Evelyn?" Noah's voice sounds far away, though his hand grips mine tightly. "Evelyn, can you hear me?"

I can hear him. I just can't form the words to respond. What do you say when your father is murdered because of the choices you made?

Jessica sobs quietly in the backseat. I should comfort her but I can't move. Can't turn around. Can't be the big sister she needs right now.

"It's my fault," I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. "He's dead because of me."

"No." Noah's grip tightens. "This isn't on you."

But it is. The Russians came for me, and when they couldn't get to me they went after him. Simple as that. A life for a life.

I remember the last words I said to him, just hours ago. How I told him I didn't need his approval anymore. How I stood tall and walked away, finally free of his control. Now he's gone forever and I'll never have the chance to...to what? Reconcile? Make peace? Did I even want that?

"I hated him," I say, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. "I hated how he controlled me. How he made me feel worthless unless I was perfect. But I never wanted him dead."

The worst part is the relief that mingles with my grief. Relief that I'll never again have to endure his disappointment, his criticism, his cold assessment of my worth based on how well I play. What kind of daughter feels relief when her father dies?

"He sold me to Ivan," I say, the realization hitting me anew. "My own father."

Noah's jaw tightens but he says nothing. There's nothing to say.

"But he was still my dad." My voice breaks. "And now he's gone and I can never tell him that despite everything, I loved him anyway. That's what hurts the most."

The tears come faster now and Noah pulls the car over. He unbuckles my seatbelt and pulls me against his chest, careful of his wound. I sob into his shirt, letting out years of complicated feelings—anger, grief, guilt, relief—all tangled together into something I can't name.

"I should have protected him," I say between sobs. "I should have warned him."

"You couldn't have known," Noah says against my hair. "None of us could."

My thoughts drift to my mother. Her face when she saw those paramedics. The way her body crumpled. She'll never be the same again. For all his faults, she loved him completely.

A memory surfaces—one I haven't had in years. I was sixteen, home early from practice because my instructor had fallen ill. The house was quiet and I slipped in through the side door, planning to squeeze in extra practice time.

I heard them in the kitchen. My mother laughing—a sound so rare it stopped me in my tracks. I peered around the corner and saw them dancing. No music was playing nevertheless they moved in perfect sync, my father humming something classical. Beethoven, I think.

"Alexander," my mother whispered, "we should check on Evelyn's progress with the Tchaikovsky."

But my father just pulled her closer. "Margaret, for once, let's just dance."

Her face—I'll never forget it. Pure adoration. Like he was her sun, her moon, her entire universe. He spun her around and she followed his lead without hesitation. Always following his lead.

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