No More Postcards From Chicago

"Mommy?" Julian's soft, hesitant voice pulled me back from the torturous memory.

He looked up, his gray-green eyes, so much like Alistair's, filled with concern. "Mommy, are you crying?"

Only then did I realize that tears had soaked the front of my dress. I knelt in front of him, hugging his small body tightly, feeling his living heartbeat. "Julian, what if we left Papa? What if I took you somewhere far away and warm? Would you come with me?"

Julian's expression froze, and tears instantly welled in his eyes. "Why? Mommy, please don't leave Papa. He really loves us… He's just too busy with family business right now…"

His words pierced my heart like a needle. God, it broke my heart. A five-year-old shouldn't have to make excuses for his father's neglect. No child should carry that weight. Of course Alistair "loved" us—but that love couldn't buy antibiotics, couldn't ward off the cold, and it damn well couldn't save a life.

I wiped the tears from his cheeks, my voice firm. "Let's make a bet, Julian. We'll see whose door Papa knocks on first when he gets back. If he goes to Aunt Isabella's, it means they're more important to him than we are."

"If that happens, you'll leave with me, and I'll find you a better father, one who will always put you first. If he comes to us first, I'll stay."

Julian bit his lip and nodded, his small hand gripping the corner of my skirt tightly.

As evening fell, a convoy of black SUVs rolled into the estate. Alistair stepped out of the lead car. He was dressed in a well-tailored black suit, tall and imposing, with chiseled features and the kind of dangerous charm that drove women mad and made enemies tremble.

"Papa's back!" Arabella's joyous shriek came from the east wing.

Alistair's steps paused for only a moment, his gaze sweeping over our window. Then, with almost no hesitation, he turned and walked directly toward Isabella's residence.

My heart sank with each step he took, but I still counted them, clinging to a final, foolish shred of hope, until he disappeared through Isabella's doorway. I could hear Alistair's voice carried on the night wind. "Arabella's gotten so big. I brought her the new collection from Paris."

Isabella feigned a polite refusal. "Her jewelry box is already full, Alistair, and my vanity is overflowing. You really should save some of these gifts for Juliana and Julian."

"No need. They're taken care of," Alistair said, his tone crisp and final, as if we were merely a fixed expense on his ledger.

"Papa!" Arabella exclaimed, throwing herself into Alistair's arms.

"You mustn't call him that, Arabella!" Isabella chided, though her voice was laced with a smile.

"I want to! Uncle Alistair is my Papa!"

"In private, you can call me Papa," Alistair said with a laugh; his laughter was a saw blade tearing through my ears, shredding what was left of my heart.

I looked down at Julian. Tears were streaming from his eyes, but he was stubbornly silent, his lips bitten white. At that moment, a fierce hatred ignited within me—a hatred for the naive fool I used to be. I knelt, pulled him into a tight embrace, and whispered a vow, "I swear, this is the last time. I will get you out of here, Julian."

Julian buried his face in my neck, his small body trembling with suppressed sobs. "I'll go with you. I don't want this Papa anymore, Mommy."

Just then, the heavy door was pushed open. Alistair's towering figure filled the doorway, his coat still carrying the chill of the Chicago night and the faint smell of gunpowder.

He raised an eyebrow, having clearly heard only Julian's last sentence. His hawk-like eyes narrowed. "What is it you don't want anymore, Julian?"