Chapter 3: The Sketchbook
The rain outside intensified, drumming a relentless tattoo against the glass as Arthur remained standing by the small table, waiting. I crossed my arms defensively over my chest, leaning back against the edge of the iron bed frame. The air between us felt charged, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths and shattered illusions.
“You think you can just walk in here and demand answers after three years of silence?” I asked, my voice hardening despite the tremor in my chin. “Vivian paid me to disappear, Mr. Sterling. Or rather, she made it very clear what would happen to my family if I stayed anywhere near your orbit. She had the power, the lawyers, and the social standing. I had a sick mother and empty pockets.”
Arthur shook his head slowly, running a hand through his dark hair, messing the immaculate styling he’d worn at the gala. “Vivian doesn't speak for me. Not when it comes to this.” He took a step toward the small wooden dresser by the door. Resting on top of it was an old leather-bound sketchbook belonging to Lily, its edges frayed and covered in crayon smudges. “What is that?”
“Don't touch that,” I snapped, moving forward instinctively, but Arthur was already lifting the cover.
He flipped open the first page. Inside were dozens of charcoal and crayon drawings of a tall man in a dark velvet jacket, standing by a garden fountain, holding a bouquet of white roses. In every single drawing, the man's face was left entirely blank—just an oval outline with soft hair and broad shoulders. Lily had drawn her father every single day for the past year, visualizing a man she had never actually laid eyes on, constructing his face from the stories I told her before bed.
Arthur stared down at the page, his breath catching in his throat. He traced the rough outline of his own silhouette with the tip of his finger, his thumb grazing the corner where Lily had written Daddy in clumsy, uneven block letters. The tough, untouchable billionaire who commanded boardrooms and dictated social columns seemed to crumble right in front of my eyes. A single tear escaped his eye, tracking silently down his cheek before he could stop it.
“She... she draws me?” Arthur whispered, his voice cracking on the syllable. “She doesn't even know my face, and she draws me?”
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“She knows your silhouette, she knows your favorite flowers from the garden where we used to hide, and she knows you're out there somewhere in the world,” I said softly, the anger draining out of me, leaving only a hollow ache. “She's three years old, Mr. Sterling. She asks why other children have fathers who pick them up from preschool, and I tell her stories about a man who wears a velvet jacket and works very far away.”
Arthur closed the sketchbook with a gentle, reverent snap. He looked up at me, his expression transformed by a fierce, quiet determination that frightened me almost as much as Vivian's cold malice. “Where is she?” he asked. “I want to see my daughter.”
