Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
He blinks, a look of surprise crossing his features.
I continue, the tears pricking behind my eyes, the weight of the realization heavy in my chest. “She … she must have sent it. My mum. She … she sent it to keep me from meeting him.”
My voice catches as I speak the words aloud, and I wipe my cheeks as tears run down them. The thought, the lost opportunity, hits me like a punch. I almost met my father, almost knew him, back when I was eighteen. He was going to get in touch with me. We could have had eight years of being in each other’s lives. All these years wasted because my mum couldn’t bear the thought of sharing me with my father.
Axel’s stance softens slightly. He leans forward, and when he speaks, his voice is quieter now, concern breaking through the edges of his usual steel. “Are you ok?”
I wipe my eyes once more and try to regain some composure. “I … Yes, I think so. I’m not really sure how I feel yet. It’s a lot to process.” I take a shaky breath. “But, Axel, I’m not here for the money. I came expecting my father to be alive, and I stayed because I couldn’t resist working on such a fine art collection. That’s why I’m here.”
He studies me for a moment, his eyes flicking over my face as if trying to assess whether or not I’m lying. I meet his gaze steadily, holding my ground, and finally he nods once, sharply.
“Alright,” he says. “I believe you.”
“And?” I say, more to cover my relief than anything.
“And what?”
“And you’re sorry for being a massive dick to me,” I say.
“Don’t push it,” he says, but he smiles at me, that genuine smile I saw him give the gardener’s son that day in the grounds. For me, it’s as good as an apology. The tightness in my chest eases slightly.
“What was he like?” I ask after a moment, my voice quieter, tentative. “Joseph. My father. Can you tell me about him?”
A small shadow of a smile crosses Axel’s face, and he leans back in his chair.
“Where do I start?” he murmurs. “He was complicated. Brilliant, stubborn, larger than life in every sense. He was terribly impatient with people who couldn’t keep up, and loyal to those who earned it. He loved art. You definitely got that from him even if you didn’t know it. He loved going to galleries incognito, debating brushwork and pigment with dealers and artists; he would spend hours alone in the vault with his collection.”
I listen, completely absorbed; the resentment and anger I’d felt toward Axel for the rude way he treated me have softened into curiosity. I find a surprising gentleness in his recollections, a reverence that I hadn’t expected.
“He was funny, in his own way,” Axel continues. “He’d make the most absurd wagers about trivial things. Once, he took a bet with me that a painting that I swore was a fake was real. I lost that bet, and he never let me forget it.”
He chuckles softly.
I can’t help but smile. “I wish I could have met him,” I whisper.
Axel’s eyes flick to mine, a strange weight in his gaze. “Yes, it’s a great shame. He loved you, and I think you would’ve liked him a lot,” he says finally. “You remind me a little of him - stubborn, clever, a bit of a firecracker.”
I feel my lips twitch into a small smile, touched by the rare praise. “I hope so,” I say quietly.
For the first time, I see a different side of Axel. He’s not just the infuriating man I’ve been at odds with; he’s human, capable of warmth and humor, of sharing memories and stories that make me feel emotionally connected to the father I never knew.
Eventually, we finish our coffee, the last thing keeping us here. The conservatory is quiet again. The sun has dipped past the horizon, and is casting long shadows across the tiles. The door opens, and a kitchen hand comes in, freezing when he sees us.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
“It’s fine,” Axel says, waving him in. “We’re about done here now anyway. Right?”
The question is aimed at me, and I nod in agreement. Truthfully, I’d like to stay longer and hear more stories, but I feel like saying so would make me look needy.
Axel stands up and brushes a few stray crumbs from his lap. Grabbing the notebook and pen, I get up too. We leave the conservatory and head back into the dining room and then back out of the other side into a hallway that leads to the foyer.
“Well, umm, goodnight,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward, though I don’t know why.
“If I hear anything about the culprit, you’ll be the first to know,” Axel says.