I was grateful for Julian's twenty-some years of care, grateful for his love and protection all these years, grateful for his understanding now. But I also knew this gratitude could never outweigh the hatred in my heart. I could forgive everyone in the Simmons family—everyone except Max. I could never forgive the man who had killed my children with his own hands. Never forgive the man who had destroyed my life.
After the bow, I straightened up. Still without a word, I turned and walked out of Julian's bedroom.
Back in my own room, the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open gently—and the moment I saw who was inside, the blood in my veins froze solid.
Max was sitting on the edge of my bed. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, his hair combed without a strand out of place. There was no guilt on his face, no grief—only thick contempt and mockery. When he saw me enter, he slowly lifted his head, his lips curling into a cruel smile, his voice sharp and grating:
"What's this? Just came back from Grandfather's room? Couldn't wait to go running to him with your complaints?"
He stood and walked toward me, step by step, the disgust and derision in his eyes completely unconcealed.
"Do you actually believe that if you sweet-talk my grandfather, sweet-talk my sister, I'll suddenly see you differently? That I'll settle down and play house with you?"
The moment I saw Max, hatred surged through me like a tidal wave, drowning everything else. I wanted to kill him right then and there. I wanted to send him straight to hell.
The hatred coiled around my heart like poisonous vines, squeezing until I could barely breathe. I stared at his hypocritical, vicious face, my nails digging so deep into my palms that blood seeped out—I didn't even feel it. My mind was filled with nothing but the urge to tear him apart.
But in the next instant, two small voices—soft and sweet—pierced through my surging hatred like a needle, gentle yet sharp, drilling into my ears as clearly as if they were right beside me.
Those were the countless nights when the girls had nestled in my arms, their little hands clinging tightly to my arm, their cheeks nuzzling against mine as they wheedled for attention.
Louise, the older one, blinking those big round eyes, her voice soft as cotton: "Mommy, I love Daddy so much. Daddy's the most handsome daddy in our whole kindergarten—even more handsome than Daisy's daddy!"