Page 13 of Coerced

He sucked in a deep breath and looked away. When he looked back at me, I could see the unshed tears that had filled his eyes. “I couldn’t lose her,” he croaked. “Your mom. I was desperate, Aria. And when everything happened with the store and we were going to lose the house, I had to do something.”

“What did you do?” I pressed, feeling the strain in my own throat.

“There was never an art dealer,” he confessed.

My eyes narrowed with confusion. “What?”

“I lied to you. I lied to the whole family. Your paintings were never in a New York City art gallery. There aren’t any art collectors across the nation that are gobbling up your paintings the way I’ve led you to believe for the last three years.”

My stomach twisted. Dad never lied. Not to me, not to anyone. He was always honest. Although I had a sneakingsuspicion as to what the answer would be, I asked, “Where are my paintings, then? Who have you sold them to?”

He hung his head in shame. “They were just a means to an end.”

“What end?” Holding up the paintings I brought with me today, I asked, “Who’s going to buy these?”

Following a long beat of silence, he revealed, “It’s how the drugs are being moved.”

My brows shot up in surprise. “Drugs?”

He jerked his chin down to confirm I’d heard him correctly.

“You need to explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain, Aria,” he returned. “Everything happened with the store, and your mom was sick. The bills were piling up, creditors were calling, and I knew we were going to lose the house. I had to find a way. So, I did something I’m not proud of, but it’s something I’d do all over again if it meant being able to keep your mom in that house while she battled cancer.”

“She doesn’t know?” I questioned him, tears filling my own eyes.

“No.”

“Jasmine?”

“She doesn’t have the slightest clue,” he admitted.

“Were you ever going to tell me the truth? Or were you going to let me believe for the rest of my life that I was successful, that I was actually talented?”

Hurt, the likes I’d never felt before, washed over me. My father had lied to me about everything, and in the process, he made me think I was some gifted artist. If only I’d taken a trip to New York for nostalgia, to see my art in a gallery, I might have learned the truth sooner.

“You are brilliant,” he insisted.

I shot him an incredulous look. “It’s kind of difficult to believe that now. Where are the paintings?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“So, you lied to me? You lied to all of us and fabricated some story about an art dealer having car trouble just to get involved in some illegal activity? And now what? What’s happening now? Because from the very little that I just heard, something isn’t good.”

Dad squared his shoulders. “They need more paintings. There’s too much volume to move with only a handful of pieces. I was going to come to your place today to pick these up and find a way to convince you to do a large batch of them.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

Maybe it was a good thing I hadn’t allowed this reality to sink in over these last few years. Because it wasn’t real. It was all just a scheme. Maybe he believed in his reasoning—I can’t say I didn’t understand that feeling of desperation and despair we’d all been living in—but I’d never have gone to these lengths.

It was wrong.

It was dishonest.

And it felt like the biggest betrayal in the world.

How could my own father have done this to me?