Page 65 of Finally Found You

“Leave it alone,” I snap, a growl escaping from deep within. “You have to let it rest. We just kissed. Camilla Balsamo means nothing to me.”

“She means everything to you,” Aslan claims.

“Just a kiss?” Heath snorts.

“Yep, he’s omitting the part where he fell madly in love with her,” Gatsby adds. “It’s a tragedy that he’s going to be like that for the rest of his life. A pathetic, sad man pretending to be thriving. And all because he couldn’t talk to his daughter. As I said before, in no time Kenzy will leave the nest and have her own life.”

“What’s there to say?” I shoot back.

“I could do it,” Hux offers, a half-hearted smile playing at the corners of his lips. “If you can’t, I’ll have the talk. It’ll be something like: Kenzy, we’re so happy you’re here, even when your mother stole your dad’s junk to make you. We all love you. But you know what would make your dad happier? To be able to love Camilla freely. Please, look deep inside your dark, moody, teenage heart and grow the fuck up.”

“If you ever tell that to my child, I’ll kill you,” I threaten with a low growl that reverberates with the gravity of my words.

He raises his hands in surrender, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint. “Fine, have it your way.”

But there’s no my way. Not really. Sure, I yearn for love, for a family, for a life free from the chaos Mother created. I just can’t have it all.

For Kenzy’s happiness, I’m willing to surrender all and give up everything.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Camilla

It’s binge-watch night. I’m engrossed watching another rerun of Beauty and the Beast, popcorn bowl in my lap and wine on the table. It’s just another Saturday night for me. I’m enthralled on the scene when the phone ringing interrupts the show, causing me to jolt. When I glance at the screen I notice it’s Kenzy.

“Are we ready for Monday?” I ask when I answer, brimming with anticipation.

“What does it mean that Mom stole Dad’s junk to make me?” she fires back, her voice cracking with agitation. My heart sinks. I swear if Lysander had a hand in telling her that…

“Hey, take a deep breath,” I say, attempting to diffuse the situation while I buy myself some time to think about what to say.

“They said I’m not a natural kid… or something like that. I don’t think my dad loves me,” she confesses, each word a dagger to my heart.

“Did you talk to him about it?” I ask, hoping I can talk some sense into her before she jumps to the wrong conclusion.

“No, after I heard him and my uncles, I came to hide inside the tasting room.”

“You’re at the vineyard?”

“Yeah, it’s still harvesting season—the best since Grandpa died, according to Dad,” she mumbles, her tone wistful. “I’ve been working here and at the bookstore every weekend since August.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“You would love it.”

“So tell me what happened with your dad,” I urge gently, my mind racing to piece together what happened and the solution to soothe her emotions. “Did he say something inappropriate about your mom or you?”

“No. My uncles were telling him that he needed to have the talk with me. That they love me, but I have to grow up and understand he’s pathetic… okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly that way, but that’s kind of what they said.”

“You’re only fifteen,” I remind her, a pang of protectiveness swelling within me. “What do they expect from you?”

“Almost sixteen,” she interjects with a hint of annoyance. “Did I tell you Dad’s going to teach me how to drive soon?”

“That sounds exciting,” I respond, my thoughts spinning like the tires of the car she’s about to drive. What’s the right approach here? Should I steer the conversation back to her initial concern, or should I keep the engine of this lighthearted banter running to help her navigate away from her worries?

“That’s not the point,” she continues, her voice carrying a mix of confusion and hurt. “I heard them say that my mom stole a condom to make me. Is that true?”

A knot tightens in my stomach. “You should’ve asked your dad about this.” A sigh escapes my lips. I’m way above my head on this… what am I supposed to say. I don’t know, but I continue, “But it doesn’t matter how you were made, Kenzy. What’s important is how much he loves you.”

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