Page 99 of The Final Faceoff
The silence is instant.
My father’s head tilts, amused but assessing. “Really?” he drawls. “And what exactly are you going to do?”
Leif’s jaw flexes. His hands clench, then release at his sides. But his voice remains measured, low and deadly in a way I’ve never heard before.
“I’ll support your daughter’s decision to keep our daughter away from you,” he states.
My father’s expression flickers.
“For now, we’ll be walking away,” Leif continues, “and once you work through your grief and realize the way you treat your youngest daughter is cruel—then maybe you can give us a call. Until then, stay the fuck away.”
I don’t breathe.
My father’s mouth presses into a hard line. He turns to me, eyes flashing. “Are you going to allow him to talk to me like that? I’m your father.”
The words sink in like ice water down my spine. This, this moment can change a lot of things. I could cower or finally confront him.
“I’m not marrying someone just because it makes you more comfortable,” I say, my voice clear despite the storm raging inside me. “And I’m letting Leif choose to talk to you how ever he sees fit. But I won’t let you talk to me the way you do anymore.”
Silence.
A slow blink. Then he shakes his head, mouth curling into something dangerously close to amusement. “That’s not how the world works, Hailey. You owe me respect because I am your father.”
I don’t realize my hands are clenched until I feel Leif’s fingers brush against mine.
“I know exactly how your world works,” I say, forcing my hands to unclench. “I spent my whole life trying to prove myself in your world. Trying to fit into a version of me you could be proud of, a version where you—” my throat tightens “—where you love me again.”
The words sit between us, fragile and ugly, the truth we never speak out loud.
“But I don’t need your approval anymore,” I say, each word a release.
He exhales slowly, like he’s tired of me. Like I’m a burden, an inconvenience.
“Hailey—”
“No.” My voice is firm. Stronger than I feel. “I let you decide who I was for too long. I let you tell me what was worth my time, what was worth my life. But you never saw me. Not really.”
“I just want what’s best for you,” he says, and the worst part is—I think he believes it.
I shake my head. “No, you want what’s best for you.”
A slow, precise pause.
Then, as calmly as if we were discussing the weather, he says, “If you go through with this, don’t expect my help. I won’t be there for you.”
But that’s the thing. He’s never been there for me. The Crawfords made me feel like I belonged. My father made me feel like I owed him my existence.
This should be the part where I beg. The part where I fold myself into the shape he wants so I don’t lose him completely.
Except I’m not a twelve-year-old girl who just lost her mother. Not anymore.
And I am so fucking tired of fighting for a father who has never fought for me.
I exhale. Let it go.
“That won’t be a problem.”
He nods once, a precise, formal motion. Then turns and walks away, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.
