Chapter Fourteen — Ghosts Don't Knock, They Break In
Hazel never spoke about her father.
Not to Henry. Not to Samuel. Not even to herself.
At nineteen, she had drawn a line so deep it felt like exile. She left him behind — the needles, the shouting, the lies, the pawned jewelry, the stench of debt chasing them down their street like wolves.
She swore he'd never touch her life again.
But the dead never stay buried in a city like this.
Two weeks before the wedding, Hazel stepped out of the café's back door during closing. The alley was quiet — until it wasn't.
He was there. Slouched against the dumpster, soaked by rain, cigarette hanging from cracked lips.
"Pumpkin," he slurred.
She froze.
Her throat went dry. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Is that how you greet your old man?"
"You're not my anything."
He stepped forward. She stepped back.
"Relax. I just wanted to see you. Heard you're marrying rich now." He grinned with rotted teeth. "Billionaire, huh? Looks like Daddy raised a smart girl."
Hazel's hands balled into fists. "You didn't raise me. You destroyed me."
"Don't be dramatic." His eyes flicked around. "You got a big wedding coming. Might be nice if your real family was there."
"Don't you dare," she whispered. "Don't come near me again."
But he wasn't listening.
"You know what I want, Hazel."
"I'm not giving you a dime."
He laughed. "Then maybe I sell a story. Or maybe your rich lover doesn't know the things you've done to survive."
Her blood ran cold.
She walked away without looking back, heart thundering in her ribs.
That night, Henry found her in the dark, curled up on the kitchen floor, shaking.
"What happened?" he asked gently.
She didn't speak.
He knelt. Waited.
Then she whispered, "My father's back."
Henry's body went still. "What does he want?"
"Money. To be at the wedding. To ruin everything."
He wrapped his arms around her. "He won't get near you."
"You don't understand. He's manipulative. Dangerous. He knows where to press. I used to steal groceries when he spent our money on heroin."
Henry's jaw tightened. "He touches you, I'll bury him."
She looked at him. "No. We don't bury ghosts, Henry. We outlive them."
Three nights later, Henry had his men follow the father.
They didn't touch him.
They just made sure he understood that Hazel was no longer unprotected.
Still, it didn't stop the letters. The voicemails. The photos. A picture of her at ten, standing barefoot on the kitchen floor, holding a paper plate of ketchup-stained eggs. "Remember this?" scrawled on the back.
He wanted to be let in.
Hazel didn't know whether to scream or break.
Henry offered to relocate the wedding. Or delay it.
Hazel refused.
"If I run now, I'll never stop running."
Instead, she made a vow.
"I will not let the past crawl into my future."
Henry kissed her temple.
"You're the bravest woman I know," he whispered.
Hazel laughed bitterly. "I'm the most broken."
He touched her jaw. "Then we're a matched set."
Two days before the wedding, Hazel stood outside the venue, clutching her bouquet during the final walk-through.
And across the street, beneath a flickering streetlamp, her father stood watching.
Hands stuffed in torn pockets.
Eyes hollow.
And beside him, in the shadows, another figure appeared.
Ava.
Hazel didn't need to hear their words.
The alliance was clear.
The storm was coming.
But Hazel was no longer the girl who trembled at footsteps in the hallway.
She was the woman who'd learned to walk through fire.
And she would not be burned again.