SERAPHINA’S POV
My father.
The words echoed through my mind with the same disorienting force as a physical blow.
For several seconds, I simply stared at him.
I knew it wasn't him.
The moment I looked into those empty eyes, I understood that whatever stood before me was not Edward Lockwood as he had once been.
My father was dead. I had mourned him, buried him, and spent far too long wrestling with everything he had left unresolved between us.
And yet knowing all of that did absolutely nothing to soften the impact of seeing his face again.
Because grief wasn't rational.
Regret wasn't rational.
The little girl who had spent years craving her father's attention and love wasn't rational either.
She still existed somewhere inside me no matter how much I had grown.
Edward's puppet stood motionless near Catherine's barrier, his posture calm and composed in a way that felt unnervingly familiar.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
