On her eighteenth birthday, Elara Vance called her father, Julian Vance.

“Please,” her voice was like a wisp of candle smoke about to be extinguished in the wind. “Just this once… or I’m going to die.”

A cold, annoyed voice answered from the other end, the clamor of a dinner party audible in the background. “Then maybe you should,” Julian Vance said. “It would be less dramatic.”

The line went dead.

As the clock struck midnight, Elara, alone in her apartment, suffered a fatal arrhythmia triggered by the intense emotional distress. Her breathing stopped.

Her consciousness grew light, drifting out of her cooling body to hover in mid-air. She saw herself still wearing the ridiculous paper birthday crown, collapsed on the cold floor like a broken doll abandoned by its owner.

Outside the window were the undying lights of New York City; inside was her silent death.

A strange sense of peace enveloped her. She looked down at her hands. They were translucent. They could no longer hold a paintbrush, nor could they feel the ache in her chest.

Just then, a knock came from the door.

It began as a few restrained, rhythmic raps, but quickly became frantic, violent, as if intending to smash the door down.

“Elara!”

It was Julian’s voice.

“Open the door. I know you’re home.”

Elara’s spirit floated to the door, passing through the heavy wood. She saw Julian Vance standing outside, dressed in his bespoke suit, his brow furrowed, his face wearing that familiar, complicated expression somewhere between worry and exasperation.

Elara watched him quietly. Even in death, seeing this, a faint, childish flicker of hope seemed to stir where her heart no longer beat.

She hoped he would break down the door. Hoped he would see her body.

Then… would he feel a little bit of regret?

Even a little would be enough.

But what she hoped for didn't happen.

After a long, fruitless attempt at pounding on the door, Julian took a step back. The worry on his face was swiftly replaced by anger and a cold mockery. He took out his phone, opened their chat, and pressed the voice message button.

“Is this fun for you, Elara? Is it amusing to play out this melodrama for the whole world?” His voice, filtered through the phone, sounded even colder than it would have in person. “What, you figured playing the victim to my face wasn't working, so now you want everyone to condemn me as an irresponsible father? Let me tell you something. I pay for your food, your clothes, and send you to the best schools. I don't owe you anything.”

After sending the message, Julian turned and strode away.

He entered the elevator, his brow still locked in a tight frown, an intimidating aura radiating from him. A little girl, held in her grandmother’s arms, had just stepped into the elevator and was so frightened by his gloomy expression that she started to sob. The girl was wrapped in a blanket, her little face flushed red; she was clearly being rushed to a doctor in the middle of the night.

The ice on Julian’s face melted instantly. He quickly smoothed his brow and softened his voice. “I’m sorry. I was just in a bad mood about something else. Did I scare you?”

His tone was gentle. Elara’s spirit floated beside him, watching silently. So this is what my father is like when he’s comforting a child.

As long as she could remember, he had never once comforted her.

To the outside world, Julian was a nearly perfect man. He made enormous, anonymous donations to children’s charities in impoverished areas every year. His company offered benefits and leave for pregnant employees that far exceeded legal requirements. He would treat even a strange child on the street with the utmost patience and kindness.

But when it came to his own daughter, all his tenderness and patience seemed to be blocked by an invisible wall, leaving only coldness and impatience.

He quickly soothed the little girl. He even hailed a cab for them. By the time the car arrived, the girl had stopped crying. With a flushed face, she asked him curiously, “Mister, do you have any kids?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

Julian paused for a moment.

“Two,” he said in a low voice. “A son and a daughter.”

So, I still count as his daughter, Elara thought.

The car arrived. Before getting in, the little girl took a piece of fruit candy from her pocket and pressed it into Julian’s palm.

“This is for you, mister,” she said, her eyes curving into crescents as she smiled. “It must be wonderful to be your daughter.”

She waved at Julian and disappeared behind the car door.

The car sped away. Julian stood there, clutching the melting candy in his hand.

“It must be wonderful to be your daughter.”

That sentence was like a tiny needle, pricking a place deep inside his heart. He took out his phone and opened Elara’s Instagram again. Beneath the photo of a single cupcake with one candle, the voice message he had just sent lay there, solitary, with no reply.

This wasn’t normal.

In the past, she was always the one sending him messages, while he was the one who didn’t reply. There had never been a time when he sent a message and she ignored it.

Julian’s brow tightened again, a strange unease beginning to spread. He opened his contacts, found Elara’s number, and was about to dial—

When his phone rang.

The caller ID showed “Amber.”

“Darling, you should come home. I think Kevin has a fever…”

I Died on My 18th Birthday, and My Father Lost His Mind — Chapter 8

Potrebbe anche piacerti

Nessuna raccomandazione