Adopted to Biological? Keep Your Golden Child Scapegoat Out novel Chapter 66

Chapter 5

I said I’d come. We talked for another minute, then hung up

Turned to Denny and smiled:

“You know the worst part about ECT? It doesn’t just kill your ability to draw. It also destroys your memory.”

My voice stayed flat. Like I was commenting on traffic.

Denny’s eyes went red.

“Wren, I’ve seen your old work… God, what a waste.”

I was good. Really good. Loved it more than anything.

Landed at one of the best design firms in the country straight out of school.

Never even got to prove myself before it all collapsed.

They were going to keep me on–different department–until Quinn sent her complaint.

After that, I was blacklisted. Couldn’t get hired anywhere.

Ended up in some forgotten town in the middle of nowhere, starting from zero.

Denny rubbed his face:

“You don’t have to see him. Let me go.”

“It’s okay.” I closed my eyes. “There’s something else I need to get back anyway. Might as well do it all at once.”

My college portfolio.

Zachary had begged me for it years ago. Said he wanted to frame every page, keep it forever.

What a joke.

He chose the location.

The pedestrian street near campus.

End of the block used to be a bakery–made all our anniversary cakes.

Now it was a coffee shop. Different decor, same address.

Zachary sat in the back corner, spine straight, shoulders tight

I walked over. Nodded once. Sat down.

There was a flat white waiting for me. I took a sip.

Ice cold.

He’d been here a while.

He looked nervous. Kept tapping his fingers against the table.

I’d seen that tell exactly three times before.

When he told me he loved me.

When he proposed.

So what was he nervous about now?

The shop had changed owners, but the old guy was still around.

He kept glancing over before finally walking up:

“The drawings I asked about on the phone–you still have then?”

He started: “I–I’m sorr-”

“Zachary.”

I said his name.

I’d said it thousands of times over ten years.

*“Zachary, help me with my homework?“*

*“Zach, my feet hurt–carry me.

*“Careful, Zach! You’re gonna leave a mark.“*

But this time it was different. Final.

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry. It’s too late for that. We were never going to work.”

Then I held the portfolio against my chest and walked out.

Later, I told Denny while he was shooting a campaign.

He shook his head:

“That’s it? You should’ve destroyed him. Made him feel what you felt-”

He stopped. Sighed.

“Actually, no. Forget him. After everything you’ve been through? Just walking away without falling apart? That takes real strength”

This version of me—the one who can stay calm–was built on years of sleepless nights and therapy sessions.

It took four full years to get here.