Monte Cristo quietly opened the drawing room door and froze. There sat Haydée, slumped in a chair with her arms dangling at her sides and her head thrown back. She'd been standing guard at the door, determined to catch him before he left, but exhaustion had finally won. Sleep had claimed her despite her best efforts to stay awake.
The door's creak didn't disturb her. Monte Cristo watched her with a painful mixture of love and regret twisting in his chest.
"She remembered she had a son," he whispered to himself. "And I forgot I had a daughter."
He shook his head, sadness etching lines across his face. "Poor Haydée. She wanted to see me, to talk to me. She knows something's wrong, or at least suspects it." His voice dropped even lower. "I can't leave without saying goodbye. I can't die without making sure someone will take care of her."
He returned to his desk and picked up his pen, adding more lines to the document he'd been writing:
