chapter388
Go back to sleep, sweetie. It’s still early,” Thalassa whispered, gently patting his chest until his breathing leveled out again. She waited until she was sure he was deep in slumber before quietly exiting the room.
The next morning, Thalassa woke to a quiet house. A quick glance at her phone revealed it was already past ten. She had slept later than intended—a testament to the sheer exhaustion of the past week. By now, the children were safely at kindergarten, and her mother had likely headed out to join her usual social circle.
As she drove toward the city, her phone rang with an unfamiliar number.
“Hello?”
“Thalassa, it’s Bruce.”
Thalassa’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, her first instinct being to terminate the call.
“Wait,” Bruce interjected hurriedly. “I’m calling about Elowen. She’s advanced to the final round of the regional gourmet competition. It’s scheduled for ten in the morning, three days from now. Don't let her miss her moment.”
“I’m aware of the schedule,” Thalassa replied, her tone cold and professional.
“Thalassa, must there always be this distance between us? I am, regardless of the past, your father.”
A flash of sharp irony crossed Thalassa’s mind. A father was a role defined by presence and responsibility—concepts Bruce had neglected for decades. “I believe we’ve already established the boundaries of our relationship, Bruce. Let’s keep this focused on the competition.”
“I also wanted to ask... about the card,” Bruce continued, his voice sounding genuinely puzzled. “The hospital staff found it tucked under my pillow after I was discharged. I offered that to you as a gesture of closure—a way to ensure you and your mother were provided for. Why return it?”
Thalassa remained focused on the road. At the hospital, she had accepted the card only to end the public confrontation and clear the path for Isabella. The moment Bruce had stepped away, she had returned the card to his room, refusing to allow a financial transaction to define her self-worth or her mother’s dignity.
She realized now that the simple act of taking the card—briefly captured by the cameras—had fueled Lysander’s misconceptions about her loyalty. She had the truth, but in Lysander’s world of data and evidence, a single image often outweighed a thousand words.
“I never agreed to your terms, Bruce,” she said firmly. “My independence isn't for sale.”
Just as she was about to end the call, Bruce’s voice turned urgent. “One more thing. What exactly is your association with Lysander Sinclair?”
Thalassa’s breath hitched. Why would Bruce—a man who had spent years avoiding the spotlight—be asking about the head of the Sinclair Group? The question felt like a warning she wasn't yet prepared to decode.