Page 54 of Wasted
She couldn’t even tell her own father about the guilt she carried. Not that she was actually guilty of anything wrong. What happened with her mom wasn’t her fault. But he would never forget the phrase she’d kept repeating when she had called to say she couldn’t see him anymore.
It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.
In true Victoria fashion, she’d taken the blame when her dad was to blame, not her.
And she didn’t deserve to be blamed now either. Not for leaving her mother for barely thirty minutes that night sixteen years ago or for getting questioned by the police today. She was always bending over backwards and sacrificing everything to please a father who didn’t deserve her. A man who was probably blasting her right now for something that wasn’t even her fault.
Cillian couldn’t let her face the bully alone. Not this time.
He would do what he should’ve done sixteen years ago. He left his jeep and stalked to the front door.
He reached for the handle, and it opened. Great. Victoria had left it unlocked.
He stalked into the foyer that brought back vague memories of the few times he’d been allowed inside. The times Victoria had the courage to sneak him in when her dad was away. And that one night when her mom had wanted to meet Cillian, and Victoria’s dad had caught them.
The white marble floor and open space looked even colder and emptier than before. Seemed like some of the decorations Victoria’s mother had put up were missing now.
“May I help you with something?” A feminine voice drew his attention to the staircase on the left.
A petite young woman with long brown hair stood on the bottom steps of the staircase by the wall, watching him. Her body skimming black dress dipped low at the neckline and cut off at her thighs, leaving little for him to imagine of her figure. If he’d wanted to. But he had an elegant woman and a much more important mission on his mind.
“Did you see where Victoria went?”
The girl left the staircase and walked toward him, her high heels or her own effort swaying her hips side to side.
He stifled an eye roll at the obvious attempt to attract him. “I’m in a hurry.”
“You know Victoria?” She tilted her head as she stopped two feet in front of him and looked him up and down. The surprise in her tone matched the way she raised her eyebrows as her brown eyes lifted to his face.
“Yes. She went to talk to her father. Do you know where she is?”
The woman shrugged one bare shoulder. “I couldn’t say for sure.” She bit her full, lipstick lined lower lip. “I’d be happy to wait with you.” The way she dragged up her mascara-loaded eyelashes was probably supposed to be attractive. But Victoria had made him immune to such artificial ploys. Who was this girl, anyway, and why was she in the Westons’ house?
Oh, wow. “Are you Treese?” He stared down at her, searching for any trace of the chubby cheeked little girl who’d run around the house with her brother, Robert.
She blinked those eyelashes, but without flirtation this time. “Yes.”
“I’m Cillian Doherty. Victoria’s b—” He wished. If only he could call himself her boyfriend as he had the first time he’d met her siblings. “Her friend from high school.”
“Oh.” Treese’s mouth dropped open slightly as she scanned him with a far more innocent expression, her brow furrowed as if trying to recall him.
A raised voice—a man—reached the foyer. Seemed like it came from the hallway to the right. “Is that your dad?”
“Uh-huh.” She tapped her fingertip against her bottom lip as she stared at Cillian.
“Thanks.” He took off in the direction of the yelling. The voice led him to a closed door. And the voice he still remembered, bursting through the heavy carved wood.
“You know better than to become personally involved with patients.” Henry Weston’s shout carried a domineering bite that few but the powerful could deliver. “Look what disregarding my guidance and best practices has brought about. I cannot believe you would bring shame on our family in such a way.”
Anger surged through Cillian. He flung open the door, his gaze finding Victoria as she stood up from a chair facing a desk and spun toward him, her cheeks flushed and eyes wide.
But he didn’t linger on her. He landed a glare on Henry Weston. The tormentor and controller of the woman he loved.
The man straightened from leaning over his desk to intimidate Victoria as much as possible.
“That’s enough.” Cillian stalked closer to Henry Weston, stopping at the desk to face him. He was shorter than Cillian remembered. A little older. But the same sternness defined his features. And hardness coated the eyes that were unbelievably the same color as Victoria’s.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?” The doctor drew himself up to his full height, still smaller than Cillian, and sharpened his stare.
