He hadn't meant to follow her.
But something in Stacy's final words had shaken loose a part of him he thought was long buried—something soft, something fragile. Now, he sat in the far corner of the downtown café, tucked behind a pair of potted plants and the hum of casual conversation, watching the girl his daughter loved most.
The girl who had brought light into Stacy's life.
He remembered it now, in fragments—the way Stacy had changed during the time she was with Zoe. Her laughter had come more easily then. Her steps had a bounce he hadn't seen since she was a child. She spoke about the future with color in her voice, as if she was finally living her life, not the one scripted for her.
Zoe had been the reason.
The reason his daughter smiled wider than he had ever seen.
The reason she walked into boardrooms with fire in her eyes.
The reason she came home glowing—not from accomplishment, but from love.
And now—because of him—that light was gone.
He could see it in the way Stacy walked now: slower, heavier, like the weight of someone else's expectations sat on her shoulders. He saw it in the forced smiles she wore like armor, and the silence in her eyes—the kind that only came from nights spent crying quietly into a pillow.
Across the café, Zoe sat at a small table with a few colleagues, a coffee cradled in her hands, half-forgotten. She laughed at something one of them said—a short, practiced sound—but her eyes didn't follow the joke. They flicked toward the window instead, far away, unfocused.
That's when he really looked at her.
And in that moment, something inside him cracked.
"God," he whispered. "You really look like her."
Zoe's profile was turned just enough for the light to catch it—soft and slanted through the blinds.
The same high cheekbones.
The same quiet, intelligent eyes.
The same curve to the mouth that used to pull into a knowing smile when Caitlyn caught him looking at her across a crowded room.
"You have her smile," he murmured, more to himself than anyone. "Her lips. Her nose. Even the way you tilt your head when you're thinking."
He swallowed hard, voice tightening.
"I can't blame Stacy," he said. "Not for falling in love with you."
His fingers curled tightly around his coffee cup, now cold.
Zoe laughed again—softer this time, a little more real—and it hit him like a blow to the chest.
He'd been so focused on protecting the legacy, the name, the image—just like his father had taught him—that he hadn't seen the one thing worth protecting had already been standing right in front of him.
Love. Not duty. Not appearances.
Love.
He exhaled shakily, setting the cup down.
It was time.
After another long look—one final moment to commit the scene to memory—Richard stood, collected his coat, and stepped out of the café.
He was going to the one place where he could finally say what should have been said a long time ago.
To Zoe's mother.
To Caitlyn.
-
Richard slowly placed a bouquet of white lilies on the tombstone of Caitlyn Rivera.
The breeze stirred gently around him, carrying the sharp scent of cut grass and the damp earth beneath his feet. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees overhead, casting long, stretching shadows across the worn stone.
Her name was still clear.
Caitlyn Rivera
Beloved Daughter. Devoted Mother.
He knelt down slowly, joints aching not just from age, but from years of carrying a weight he had no right to.
"I should've come sooner," he whispered, voice trembling with regret.
"If only I'd been brave enough to apologize to you... face to face—not standing here, alone, at your grave."
His fingers brushed the edge of the stone. The marble was cool beneath his hand, smooth and unmoving—just like he had forced himself to be when he chose legacy over love, when he let Caitlyn go without ever truly saying goodbye.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," he said, eyes locked on her name. "Not because it felt right—but because it was what my father expected. I was afraid... afraid of disappointing him, of being cast out, of letting go of everything I was raised to believe mattered most."
He paused, the wind stirring gently through the trees.
"The legacy... the name... it mattered to me," he said quietly. "It still does, in some ways. But back then, it was everything. And I let it make my choices for me. I let him make them."
The wind shifted. A dry leaf scraped along the path behind him, loud in the stillness.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice low, carefully held together. "For leaving without a goodbye. For walking away like you didn't mean what you meant to me."
He paused, swallowing as if the words resisted being said.
"I knew it would hurt you," he continued. "And I did it anyway. I let fear speak louder than love." A beat. "That's something I'll carry with me."
A long silence.
Then he exhaled—slowly, deeply—and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a folded photo, edges worn soft from time. It was the same one from the journal—the one of her and a younger him, arms wrapped around each other, smiling like they hadn't yet learned how cruel time could be.
He placed the photo gently beside the flowers.
"I see you in her," he said. "In Zoe."
His gaze lifted to the sky for a moment, then returned to the grave.
"She's... extraordinary, Lyn. Strong. Kind. Steady. She reminds me of you in all the ways that matter. And Stacy... she loves her. The way I loved you."
A pause.
"No," he corrected himself softly. "More than I ever loved you."
The words caught in his throat, but he pushed through them.
"I won't make the same mistake twice."
He swallowed hard, standing up again. The wind brushed through the trees above, and for a moment it felt like something in the air had shifted—like something had been released.
"I couldn't give you the life we deserved," he said. "But I can give them the chance we never had."
He took one last look at the grave, a faint, sorrowful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I'll protect what you would've protected. I'll choose love this time—not legacy."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed Alexandra's number.
After a few rings, her voice came through the speaker.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Alex," Richard said, his voice steady but urgent. "We need to talk."
Then, turning slowly, he walked away—leaving behind the ghosts of the past and the weight of a promise long overdue.