Married To My Father's Murderer's Son

The evening began with laughter.... Like it always have...

It slipped gently through the Winston house, settling into the corners of the modest living room, clinging to the thin curtains that fluttered against open windows, warming the chipped walls that had heard more joy than sorrow..... until that night.

Dalia Winston sat cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by chaos only she could understand. Papers were scattered everywhere.... some crumpled, some torn, some abandoned halfway through frustration. Pencil shavings dusted the rug like soft gray snow. Her small desk was pushed against the wall, its surface cluttered with sketchbooks, rulers, and a mug that once held tea but now held nothing but forgotten hope.

Her room was simple. No luxury. No excess. Just memories.

Photographs hung crookedly above her bed.... her father smiling proudly at her school ceremony, the two of them laughing at a park, a blurry picture taken by a stranger on a day neither of them remembered clearly but treasured anyway. Certificates were taped beside them, edges curling with time. Proof that she was trying. Proof that he had always believed in her.

“Daddy,” she called out, her voice bright, full of mischief, “don’t come in yet.”

She shuffled through the stack of papers again, her heart fluttering with anticipation.

From the living room came the sound she loved most.... her father’s laugh. Warm. Familiar. Safe.

“You said you’d be ready by now,” he teased. “I rushed home for this, you know.”

“I know,” she said, smiling to herself. “But gifts need time.”

“A gift?” he echoed, amused. “Now you’ve got my attention.”

She grinned wider.

“Please,” she said. “Just wait a little longer.”

There was a pause, then a soft sigh.

“Alright,” he said fondly. “I’ll be right here.”

Her chest swelled with happiness. She had begged him all week to come home early from work, insisting it was important. She hadn’t told him why. Some moments deserved surprise. Some moments deserved to be remembered forever.

The house smelled faintly of dinner.... simple food cooked with care.

Outside, the sky was slipping into dusk, painting the world in gentle blues and fading gold. The Winston house was small, but it was full. Full of love. Full of promises.

Then the doorbell rang.

The sound cut through the air like a blade.

Dalia frowned slightly but kept searching, brushing it off. Visitors were rare, but not unheard of. She heard her father’s footsteps cross the living room.

“I’ll get it,” he called.

Her fingers finally closed around the paper she had been searching for.

Her breath caught.

She lifted it carefully, reverently.

It was a painting.

Not perfect. Not professional. But filled with devotion. A picture of her and her father standing side by side, smiling, frozen in a moment that felt unbreakable. In it, he looked strong. Taller. Untouchable. Like nothing bad could ever happen as long as he existed....and on the left corner of the paper was an inscription boldly written in wobbly writing..

"MY SUPERHERO... NOW AND ALWAYS"

Her eyes burned with pride.

She jumped to her feet, clutching the drawing to her chest, and hurried towards the hallway, eager to show him.....

And stopped.....

Her father stood in the living room, no longer relaxed, no longer smiling.

He was facing a man.... Though Dalia couldn't see his face but she knew she had never seen him before.....

The stranger filled the space with something heavy. He was well-dressed, too composed, his presence wrong against the warmth of the house. There was an edge to him.... sharp, dangerous, like a storm disguised as calm.

Dalia instinctively retreated into the shadows, her heart slamming against her ribs.

“…this isn’t wise,” her father said, his voice tight, unfamiliar.

The man’s expression didn’t change. “What’s unwise,” he replied coolly, “is thinking you can walk away.”

“I told you already,” her father snapped. “I won’t be part of it. I won’t ruin my name or my family to cover your dirt.”

Dalia’s fingers trembled around the paper.

Her father had never raised his voice like that before.

“You owe me,” the man said.

“I owe you nothing,” her father replied. “You brought an idea I do not want a part of..... But if you think killing me will erase the truth, you’re a fool.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Dalia felt something crawl up her spine.

Her father’s gaze flicked briefly toward the hallway.

Straight to her.

Their eyes met.

In that instant, without a word, he told her everything.

Be quiet.

Don’t move.

Stay hidden.

Her throat closed as she pressed herself flat against the wall, breathing shallowly, fighting the urge to run to him, to scream, to beg.

The man missed that little moment.

“You know too much for someone who talks too much,” the stranger said calmly.

There was a sound then.

A quiet click.

Metal.

Dalia’s vision blurred.

Her father straightened, squaring his shoulders as if bracing himself against fate.

“Then do it,” he said. “But don’t pretend this ends tonight.”

The gun lifted.

The sound that followed was almost silent, but it took more than a life.... It shattered Dalia's world.

The gunshot tore through the house, silent and unforgiving. Dalia watched in horror as her father’s body jerked, shock flashing across his face before he collapsed to the floor. Blood spilled out, dark and unstoppable, soaking into the carpet he had once cleaned with care.

Her lungs burned as she fought to breathe.

A sudden noise came from outside the front door.

Something soft. Like something dropping.

The man stiffened.

Fear cracked through his cold composure.

He turned sharply towards the door, swore under his breath, and rushed out, his footsteps hurried and uneven. Moments later, the front door slammed shut, the sound echoing like a final sentence.

Silence followed.

A silence so loud it hurt.

Dalia stumbled forward, her legs weak, her world spinning. The paper slipped from her fingers.

The drawing floated gently through the air.

And landed in her father’s blood.

Red bled into the smiling faces she had drawn.... hers and his.... until joy and tragedy became one.

Dalia dropped to her knees beside him, screaming his name until her voice broke.

But her father did not answer.

The laughter that had filled the house hours earlier was gone.

And the gift she had promised him.... her love, her art, her future.... lay stained forever in red.

That night did not just take her father.

It took her childhood......

The nightmare never changed.

It always began with a sound.

Sharp.

Sudden.

Final.

But this time, it lingered longer.

A door creaking open.

Footsteps that didn’t belong.

The air felt wrong.... thick, metallic, heavy in her lungs.

Dalia stood barefoot in the hallway again, her small body trembling though she didn’t remember telling it to. The lights flickered faintly above her. The house felt stretched, distorted.... too long, too quiet.

Her heart pounded so loudly it drowned everything else.

“Dad?” she called, her voice thin and breaking. “Dad?”

Silence.

Then....

The sound exploded through the house.

The walls seemed to shake with it. The ringing in her ears swallowed her scream before it fully formed.

“Daddy!”

But the only thing that answered her was the echo of the gunshot reverberating