Sweet Hatred
Chapter 191: Two Words

Chapter 191: Two Words

It took us nearly an hour to get there. Past the city noise. Past the rich neighborhoods. Past the places where people actually looked you in the eye.

The Haven Outreach Program.

One of those small, squat buildings at the edge of the city. The kind people passed without a second thought. Beige bricks. Faded sign. A tiny garden someone still clearly took the time to water.

It looked like peace. Which made me suspicious.

As we stepped out of the car, I felt Olivia hesitate beside me.

She didn’t say anything, but her pace slowed. Her hands tugged at her sleeves. She stepped slightly behind me, like she didn’t want to be seen.

I glanced at her. "You okay?"

"I’m fine," she said quickly.

But she wasn’t.

She kept close, too close. Eyes flicking around like she was searching for someone, or hiding from them.

I didn’t push. I had enough spirals in my own head.

Inside, it smelled like old wood, floor polish, and something warm. Maybe soup. The front had a small counter, neatly arranged with pamphlets and a bell no one probably rang.

A woman sat behind it. Middle-aged. Kind eyes. Sharp gaze.

I stepped forward. "Hi. I’m looking for someone. James Thorne."

The name tasted like metal on my tongue.

Her eyes lit up instantly, recognition, unmistakable and too fast.

But then it vanished. Gone in a flash. Her face reset into something neutral, maybe a little guarded.

"Oh. Um..." she glanced at Olivia, then back at me. "He’s... he’s here. He helps out in the garden in the mornings. You can go through that hallway"—she pointed left—"and out the back gate. He should be there."

"Thank you," I said quietly.

I felt Olivia shift beside me, her hand grazing my elbow.

I walked toward the hallway, my feet hardened, each step heavier than the last.

My father—James fucking Thorne—was just behind that door.

Breathing. Living. Waiting.

And I didn’t know what I was going to say when I saw him.

But I knew I’d say it anyway.

We stepped into the garden through a crooked wooden gate.

It was small, quiet. A little overgrown but still alive. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the fence, catching on the dust motes and leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a wind chime clinked softly, too gentle for the weight in my chest.

And there he was.

Bent over a row of herbs, sleeves rolled up, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. My father.

He looked... older. Grayer around the temples. Softer, maybe. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

My breath hitched.

That familiar, poisonous heat began to creep up my spine. Rage, old rage, bubbling back to life like it had never left.

The images came fast and merciless.

My mother, bruised arms and bitten lips, whispering "It’s okay, girls, just go to your rooms."

Olivia screaming as he slammed the door.

Me, standing in the kitchen one night, hands shaking as I held a knife behind my back, convinced this would be the night I finally did it. But it wasn’t. Because I told myself I couldn’t, that he was my father still, that maybe things could still change, but that didn’t last.

Because he grew worse and it took his own daughter almost smashing his skull in to realize he had gone too far.

He disappeared after that. Left a crater we all learned to walk around.

And now here he was. Tending plants.

Like he hadn’t burned everything down.

My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. I took a slow breath. Then another.

He gave you this address for a reason, I told myself.

You wanted to hear it.

You came here for answers, not revenge.

A movement beside me made me glance sideways.

Olivia stood stiff, a little pale, shoulders tight. But it was her eyes that gave her away... unblinking and watery, locked on the man who had destroyed her childhood.

Her fingers tugged at her sweater sleeve again, twisting the fabric like she probably needed something to anchor her.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

"I’m sorry," I whispered. "I shouldn’t have dragged you into this."

Olivia didn’t look at me. Just blinked, hard.

"If it’s too much," I said softly, "you don’t have to stay. I can do this alone."

She turned slightly toward me, finally about to say something, maybe a refusal, maybe a scream but the words never made it out.

Because we heard it. His voice.

"Aria?"

We both froze.

Slowly, like something ancient creaking open, we turned toward it.

He stood by the garden’s edge now, upright, wiping his hands on a ragged towel. His voice was the same. Too calm. Too casual. Like we hadn’t just unearthed decades of pain.

His eyes met mine.

And I hated how much I saw myself in them.

He walked toward us slowly, like he wasn’t sure if we’d run or I’d strike him. His steps were deliberate, the weight of years dragging in every movement. His gaze slid over to Olivia first.

And in that split second, there it was.

Recognition. A flicker of something in his expression. Shame? Guilt? No, too fleeting.

It melted away fast. Too fast.

His face rearranged itself into something unreadable. Blank. Controlled.

And then his eyes met mine.

Softened.

"You came," he said, voice low. Not surprised. Not smug. Just... like he’d been waiting.

I kept my stare hard, cold. My hand clenched tighter around my bag strap.

"I couldn’t help but be curious," I said, my voice sharp. "Curious about what a pathetic, abusive piece of shit like you could possibly have to say after burning your family to the fucking ground."

His eyes didn’t even flinch.

But the corner of his mouth twitched, like he found something about that funny.

He gave a soft, dry chuckle. "You always were the burning one... just like me."

"Don’t you fucking dare..." I almost stepped forward. Almost. "I am nothing like you."

Olivia didn’t move. She was still trying to melt into the background, like she was thirteen again, like this was just another nightmare in a hallway she never escaped.

He looked at both of us again, longer this time, but not too long. As if afraid to linger. As if lingering would undo the strange illusion he’d crafted for himself over the years.

"There’s a small room in the back," he said finally. "We can talk there. It’s more private."

He nodded toward the side of the shelter. I followed his line of sight, past a rusting water tank and a narrow corridor behind the church building. There was a small office back there, maybe once used for confession or prayer sessions. Tucked away from the rest of the place. Quiet.

A place no one would hear if you raised your voice.

Or broke down. Or screamed probably.

I glanced at Olivia. She still hadn’t spoken. Just stared at him, like seeing a ghost that refused to stay buried.

"I’ll only hear you out," I said to him. "That’s it."

He nodded once.

"I wouldn’t ask for anything more."

When we entered the room, I felt suffocated.

Somehow both too small and too wide. The walls felt like they were leaning in, like they could crush me if I blinked wrong. The only sound was the hum of old fluorescent lights and the distant murmur of footsteps outside.

We sat.

He across from me, folded into some faux-leather chair that creaked every time he moved. Olivia beside me, too quiet, almost suspicious even.

I stared at him. Watched the way his fingers fidgeted, how his eyes kept flicking to mine, then away again.

"Talk," I said. Sharp. Cold. No warmth left in my voice. "Now."

He looked at me. Then let out a slow breath.

"I’m sorry."

That was it. Two fucking words.

I let out a breathless chuckle, shaking my head. Of course. Of course.

I looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time without flinching. "Is that it?" I said. "Is that all? A sorry? Not even an excuse?"

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me like he thought that word meant something.

"Do you honestly think," I said, voice rising, trembling, "that years of pain, years of watching my mother fall apart, of watching Olivia sleep with the lights on, of waking up every night choking on my own screams, can be fixed with a single, fucking sorry?"

He flinched this time. Good.

"I know," he said, quiet. "I hurt your mother. I hurt you. And Olivia. I know I can’t undo what I’ve done. I know I can’t make it right. I don’t have any excuses. But I’m hoping—" His voice cracked. "I’m hoping you’ll find it in your heart, someday, to forgive me."

That broke something in me.

I laughed.

Louder this time. Bitter and raw. It echoed against the walls like a scream.

"I must be dreaming," I muttered, pressing my palm to my forehead. "This isn’t real. This can’t be real."

He said nothing.

I stood up, the legs of the chair screeching against the floor. I grabbed my bag and looked down at him like he was a stain I wanted to scrub out of existence.

"If that’s all you brought me here for," I said, "then go ahead and rot in a gutter. Alone. Like you fucking deserve."

I turned. I meant to walk away. I really did.

But then—

A hand. Soft. Trembling.

Olivia’s fingers tightened around my wrist.

"Aria... just wait."

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