Grandpa's Call

Collins’s POV

I saw Amelia's back go up the stairs, her shoulders slumping in rebellion and pain, a stubborn wall forming around her heart. She was a stranger to me, but her pain pulled at something deep inside, uncalled for. I understood—she had caught her mum with a strange man and I was supposed to be her stepdad? Heavy topics for a kid her age. I’d half expected her not to return after she’d stormed out, but I was surprised when she did. What I wasn’t surprised by was the fact that Becca was unfazed — she barely flickered with concern — when Amelia took off. It made me begin to question how deep the rift between them really was and why they continued to get along like oil and fire.

I grinned, pressing myself back against the cool countertop, the cool grounding to my senses. “Maybe it’s ‘cause they’re both so beautiful.” Becca was beautiful, no denying that — not the innocence of youth, not with that sultry edge and something disheveled — a touch unkempt, a mess I couldn’t pull my gaze away from. Fact was I wasn’t here for love. It was a marriage of convenience, a transaction that we both understood, but with none of the spark which would make a heart race. Becca understood this as well. Ours was not a passionate, situation. But Amelia? She was different. Her early bloom filled up the room, her curves sidling up to the eye. She inhrited her mother’s looks but none of the tiredness and raw energy was hard to ignore. Yet she had been Becca’s daughter; she must have had those same sharp edges. I wasn’t going to stick around and see.

I was jolted from my reverie when my phone started buzzing and an unwelcome name flashed across the screen. Grandpa. ‘Ah,’ groaned myself, reluctance weighing heavily as I swiped to answer. “Hey, Grandpa,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant, waiting for the storm.

“You son of a bastard!” his voice was thundering, intact and ferocious despite the aging process. “Where the hell are you?! ” I rolled my eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be able to tell, and took a drink of water, the cold liquid quelling me.

“Grandpa, I said I was going to be busy,” I said, my voice cold, unattached. “I’m not coming home. You know I was transferred to a hospital in another city. Don’t try to trace me there.” I said, leaning back up against the cabinet, one hand in my pocket, the other phone hand just slightly away from me to help reduce the amount of inevitable yelling.

“You damn fool!” he roared, right on cue. I jerked the phone back and then laughed at how predictable he was. “Stop cussing, Grandpa,” I interrupted, my voice hardening. "You're too old for that. And don't you have some dignified elder thing? Plus I’m not some kid you can push around anymore. I go where I please, and you know what I left for.” My voice went brittle with the old hostility pressing up from beneath.

“You—!” he spat, his fury crackling down the line. “I did it for your sake! What’s wrong with Jenny? You’re in your thirties, still single, behaving like a spoiled brat!” He was breathing very heavily and you can feel the frustration, but his words only inflamed my own.

My eyes grew thin, a cold drafting through my chest. Jenny. I was banged up already by the name and he wouldn’t drop it. “You forgetting something Grandpa?” I spoke, my voice low, and menacing. “I’m not the kind of fool who ties the knot with any one. Jenny’s not for me—never was. If you’re so struck with her, take and marry her yourself or marry her off to one of your other sons.” I couldn't help stop a wicked smile from forming on my lips. “Oh, and by the way, I’m married. So, sorry, but your plans are dead.”

“What?! ” His voice shook with disbelief above the rage. “Married? To who? They’d had better match your fucking status, or —” I didn’t wait for him to end the call before I hit the end button with a snap of my thumb, the phone buzzing at me again right away. I blocked his number immediately, just to piss him off. Good. Let him stew.

I stared at the blank screen, fatigue setting in, a weariness in my bones that was not just the hour. To be a Domingo was a curse—now and forever, born to a family that was all but cultlike in its obsession with control, in which every step was ordered and every choice was a pawn in their great political game. As the second grandson, I’d been groomed for greatness from the time I could walk, placed in lessons on politics, strategy, alliance building. But I’d rebelled, chosen a scalpel instead of a senate seat, become a surgeon instead of the puppet they’d desired. My family had erupted: my brother the golden governor was waved in my face as an example I’d never live up to. They never let me hear the end of it, never stopped pushing Jenny, the brainless heiress, as my “perfect match.” It felt suffocating, their hypocrisy becoming a poison I’d escaped by running here, to Becca, to this makeshift life.

Becca was a fluke. I knew her from the hospital where I was assigned. We clicked — not in romance, but in the lockstep of common purpose. Her divorce, her past meant nothing to me; this marriage was not for life, only protection against my family’s claws. Her daughter, though? That was another thing. Becca never talked about Amelia, and I hadn’t gone looking. My fault, really. I probably should have checked, but I was too concerned with fleeing. Now, here I was, stuck in a disaster I hadn’t anticipated.

“Hey, Collins? Not coming up?” Becca called from the stairs, drawing me out of my focus. I looked up at her, and through the sheer nightgown I could see her silhouette, her long black hair falling over her back, a coy smile on her lips. “Or we sleeping on the couch tonight?

I giggled. It was a reflexive sound rather than anything funny. ‘Vixen,” I teased rising from the counter and walking toward her. She tucked her arm through mine, the touch light, precise, a dance we both knew.

“What kept you so long in the kitchen?” she said playfully, but her eyes were searching mine. “I was waiting.”

“Fall fall,” I said, being vague about it, and light. “Had to sort some things out. Don’t you remember that I’m in surgery tomorrow afternoon? Next time, hit down, I’ll come up when I’m done.” I brushed by her, head already light, the night’s weight settling on my shoulders. Amelia’s face — those fierce, hurting eyes — darted across my mind’s eye, unbidden, and I shook it off, and mounted the stairs to a bed that now felt more like an escape.