Chapter 3 - The Message My Father Never Meant To Send
The name on the screen was enough to make my hands go numb.
Jason Mitchell.
My father.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t move.
The restaurant noise disappeared.
The piano.
The conversations.
The sound of plates being placed on tables.
Everything faded behind the one question repeating in my mind.
Why was he watching me?
Connor noticed my expression.
“You know him?”
I stared at the phone.
“Yes.”
My voice came out quietly.
“He’s my father.”
Connor looked at the screen again.
Then at me.
“He sent this?”
I nodded.
But I didn’t understand.
Ten minutes earlier, my parents had blocked my number.
They had left me with a bill designed to humiliate me.
They wanted me to fail.
So why was my father suddenly making sure I couldn’t leave?
My phone buzzed.
I looked down.
A new message.
From Jason Mitchell.
Amber, we need to talk.
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the words felt impossible.
Need to talk.
After leaving me alone with twelve thousand dollars.
After making a public example out of me.
After deciding my pain was a lesson.
I typed a response.
Where are you?
My thumb hovered over the send button.
Then I stopped.
Because I realized something.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid of his reaction.
I deleted the message.
Connor watched me.
“You don’t have to answer him.”
“I know.”
The words surprised me.
Because I really did know.
Growing up, I had always felt like my father controlled the temperature of every room.
If he was happy, everyone relaxed.
If he was disappointed, everyone became careful.
Every decision became something I had to defend.
Every dream became something I had to justify.
But sitting there, holding a letter from someone who believed in me after seeing my work for only a few minutes, something inside me had shifted.
My father had spent years telling me what I wasn’t.
A stranger had seen what I could become.
Connor picked up the phone.
“I should tell you something.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“The person who sent that message contacted me before I came back to your table.”
My eyebrows tightened.
“Before?”
He nodded.
“He called the restaurant.”
A cold feeling moved through me.
“What did he say?”
Connor hesitated.
“He asked if you had opened your portfolio.”
I looked down.
My portfolio.
Not the bill.
Not the situation.
The artwork.
My father knew.
But how?
“He knew I brought this?”
Connor nodded slowly.
“He specifically mentioned your drawings.”
For years, my father had barely looked at my work.
Now suddenly, he cared.
Or maybe he didn’t.
Maybe he was afraid.
The thought appeared before I could stop it.
Afraid of what?
I looked at the letter from Evelyn Carter.
The opportunity.
The proof that maybe my life wasn’t the failure my parents claimed it was.
Then I looked at the bill.
The cruel note.
The trap.
Something didn’t make sense.
My father didn’t accidentally leave me.
He planned it.
So why was he worried about my drawings?
A chair moved behind me.
I turned.
A man in a dark suit stood several tables away.
Older.
Expensive watch.
Perfectly styled hair.
He wasn’t looking at the menu.
He was looking at me.
The second our eyes met, he looked away.
My heart started beating faster.
“Connor.”
He followed my gaze.
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
Connor’s expression changed.
He immediately looked toward the security camera near the entrance.
“You need to stay here.”
The way he said it scared me.
Not because he sounded threatening.
Because he sounded concerned.
“Why?”
Connor lowered his voice.
“Because your father didn’t just ask me to keep you from leaving.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did he ask?”
Connor looked around before answering.
“He asked me to make sure nobody else got to you first.”
The sentence stayed between us.
Nobody else.
I felt a chill.
“What does that mean?”
Connor didn’t answer.
Because at that exact moment, the restaurant entrance opened.
A woman stepped inside.
She looked around quickly.
Searching.
Not for a table.
Not for a reservation.
For someone.
For me.
She was in her early fifties.
Elegant black coat.
Dark blonde hair.
A familiar face.
But I didn’t know why.
Then she saw the portfolio on my table.
Her expression changed instantly.
She walked toward us.
Connor stepped forward.
“Can I help you?”
The woman ignored him.
Her eyes stayed on me.
“Amber Mitchell?”
I stood slowly.
“Yes?”
Her hands tightened around the strap of her purse.
“I need to speak with you before your father finds you.”
My body went still.
“You know my father?”
The woman looked toward the entrance.
Then back at me.
“I used to.”
The answer made no sense.
“What does that mean?”
She took a breath.
Then reached into her purse.
She pulled out a small envelope.
Not like the one from Evelyn Carter.
This one looked old.
Worn.
Like it had been carried for years.
She placed it on the table.
My name was written across the front.
Amber Mitchell.
I stared at it.
“Who is this from?”
The woman didn’t answer.
Instead, she whispered:
“Your father doesn’t want you to know what happened eight years ago.”
My chest tightened.
Eight years ago.
The year I first applied to art school.
The year my father changed.
The year he stopped asking about my drawings.
The year he started calling my dreams irresponsible.
“What happened?”
The woman looked terrified.
Not nervous.
Terrified.
Before she could answer, my phone rang.
Jason Mitchell.
Again.
This time, the screen showed a message beneath his name.
Amber, do not listen to her.
I looked at the woman.
She saw the message.
And her face went pale.
“He found me.”
Connor stepped closer.
“Who is she?”
The woman looked at him.
Then at me.
And finally whispered:
“I was the person who helped your father hide the truth about your artwork.”
I froze.
“My artwork?”
She nodded.
Then she opened the old envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
A photograph of me.
But I wasn’t alone.
I was standing beside someone I had never met.
And on the back of the picture was a date.
The same date my father told me my first gallery opportunity had been rejected.
The woman turned the photograph over.
And whispered the name written underneath.
“Your father didn’t reject your artwork, Amber.”
She looked at me.
“He stole it.”
May you like
Before I could ask what she meant, the restaurant doors opened again.
And this time, the man walking inside was my father.
