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Then so can I.

The phone rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

My heart pounds.

Not fear.

ot hesitation.

Fire.

Because for the first time in days?—

I don’t feel empty.

I feel purpose.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each ring stretches longer than it should, like the world is giving me one last chance to hang up and pretend I didn’t just blow my life open.

I don’t hang up.

I sit there on the bench, spine straight, fingers tight around my phone, the last heat of that Cuban coffee still sitting bitter on my tongue.

Fourth ring.

Then—

A click.

Silence.

And then a voice.

Male.

Calm. Polished. Older.

“Has reached the office of Emmanuel Cortés. Please leave a message.”

My breath catches.

That’s him.

That’s his voice.

My father.