Too Late to Love Me Now

Alessia "Blake" Falcone POV:

For the next few weeks, I perfected the art of being a ghost.

I drifted through the penthouse, a withdrawn, sullen teenager. It was a role I inhabited easily.

Karel's resentment was a physical presence in every room, a constant, low-level hum of hostility.

She treated my very existence as a personal affront. She never spoke to me directly, but her silence was more cutting than any insult.

If I was in a room, she would leave it.

If I used a glass, I would later find it in the trash.

Of course, my father noticed. His defense of her always came in the form of harsh whispers. "She's been through a lot, Alessia. Be patient."

But his guilt was a weapon, and I was learning how to wield it. When Karel wasn't looking, he would slip me cash-a hundred here, two hundred there. A balm for his conscience.

I hid the money under a loose floorboard in my closet.

It grew steadily, soon cresting eight thousand dollars.

A war chest built from his blood money, destined to save the woman he'd discarded.

Summer bled into fall, and school started.

Northgate High became my sanctuary. In its crowded hallways, I wasn't Clifton Daniels' inconvenient daughter or Karel Sellers' personal ghost. I was just another anonymous face in the crowd.

It was a place where I could breathe.

One Saturday afternoon, when my father and Karel were out at some gallery opening, I took my chance.

I rode a city bus for an hour, the polished gleam of downtown giving way to the familiar grit of my mother's world.

I found her near our old apartment, struggling with two heavy bags of groceries.

She was thinner.

The light in her eyes had dimmed, worn thin by exhaustion and worry.

When she saw me, she dropped the bags. An orange rolled into the gutter.

Her face, the face I saw in my nightmares, just crumpled.

"Alessia," she breathed.

Her first words weren't of anger, but of frantic concern. "Are you okay? Is he feeding you? You're too thin."

Her love was a fist clenching around my heart. I wanted to fall into her arms, tell her everything, and beg her to take me home.

But I couldn't. Not yet.

She pleaded with me to come back, her voice cracking.

I forced myself to remain cold, logical. "You can't protect me, Mom. Not yet. He'd crush you."

I reached into my bag and pulled out the thick envelope of cash. I pressed the eight thousand dollars into her hands.

Her eyes, wide and disbelieving, flew from the cash to my face.

"What is this?"

"It's a start," I said, my voice firm, clinical. "Start a business. A food cart. Edna's Kitchen, like you always talked about. Anything. Just get strong. Get powerful enough that he can never touch you again."