Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cassian
I barely slept.
Five-forty a.m., before the sun fully rose, I was up.
Washington's sunlight was different now—softer, gentler than the harsh glare of recent days.
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror for a long time. Clean-shaven. Hair combed. Face clear.
I leaned in, checking my eyes—bloodshot, yeah, but I looked alert enough.
In the closet, I skipped right past the charcoal and navy hand-tailored suits. Instead, I pulled out a white hoodie and black cargo pants.
The man in the mirror looked less like a King family patriarch and more like some regular dad heading out for a day trip.
I set the clothes aside and headed out.
The house was dead quiet. Luna's door was closed—her rehearsal wasn't until tonight, so she'd still be sleeping. Laila too. She'd been wired last night, running on pure excitement until she finally crashed.
I double-checked Laila's backpack. "Shit, where'd I put the wipes?"
I cursed under my breath, fumbling to pack her little unicorn backpack. Water bottle. Crackers. Those strawberry lollipops she loved. Even a spare jacket—just in case it got cold tonight.
I moved quietly into the kitchen and started breakfast.
Laila's strawberry sandwich first—crusts off, cream cheese, strawberries sliced thin and layered just right, pressed gently, cut diagonally.
Then scrambled eggs and pasta for Luna and me. Coffee.
When everything was ready, I sat on the couch with a newspaper. But my eyes kept drifting upstairs.
Ten-thirty. Movement.
Luna came down first. Practice clothes, hair pulled high, neck exposed. She saw the breakfast spread and stopped.
"Morning... you made this?"
"Yeah. Strawberry sandwich for Laila. Eggs and coffee for you."
A small smile. She sat and started eating. I stayed in the kitchen, pretending to clean up but really just watching the clock.
Then footsteps upstairs. Laila's voice, sleepy and sweet. "Mommy? Where are you?"
"Downstairs."
Little feet pattered down. Laila appeared at the landing—hair wild, pillow creases on her cheek, eyes bright as hell.
"Cassian!" She ran over. "Good morning!"
"Morning." I crouched down. "Eat up, then we're going to get you all dolled up—full princess treatment."
She grinned, showing her little canines.
After breakfast, I helped Laila with her shoes. Luna leaned against the doorframe, watching.
"You sure you don't need the driver?" Her voice carried something searching, a quiet worry.
"No. I promised Laila. Just the two of us today." I hoisted the ridiculous pink backpack onto my shoulder and turned to her. "I'll keep her safe, Luna. I could get lost, and she'd still come home without a scratch."
I stepped closer and kissed her forehead. She stiffened for a second, then slowly relaxed.
"Come home early. Don't give her too much ice cream—her stomach's sensitive."
"Yes, ma'am." I smiled, feeling something warm and unfamiliar surge through my chest.
I turned to Laila. "Let's go, Princess."
I took her soft little hand, and we got in the car. When the door closed and it was just the two of us, panic hit me hard.
Jesus Christ, Cassian, get it together. You've handled cutthroat board meetings, impossible politicians—now you're just taking a kid to a concert.
But I couldn't calm down. Luna had always been there before, a buffer, a safety net.
Now that safety net was gone. I had to handle Laila's emotions, her needs, all those "dad skills" I hadn't fully learned yet.
The car rolled smoothly through Washington's streets. Laila hummed in the backseat. I watched her in the rearview mirror—her little face so much like Luna's, so pure in the sunlight.
The first time I saw Laila, a wild thought took root in my mind like poison ivy.
What if she's mine?
I'd even contacted a discreet private doctor, ready to get Laila's DNA without Luna knowing. I'd wanted proof of a bond between us so badly it nearly drove me insane.
But I killed the idea.
Because I was scared. Scared that if it was true, Luna would run again over my distrust. Scared that if it wasn't, I'd start to feel distant from Laila.
More than that, if Laila really was mine, and Luna had come back, and we'd already become intimate again, why would she hide it?
Over time, the question of "biological" stopped mattering. When Laila called me Cassian with that sweet voice, the label became irrelevant.
I liked her. Liked her scrunched-up nose when she was mad, her garbled retellings of Oz, her stubborn streak that reminded me so much of Luna. Even if she wasn't mine by blood, so what?
In this ruthless world, she was the only one who liked me for me. Not for being "Mr. King."
She was just Laila. And I'd give her the world. Not because of who she was, just because I loved her.
I pulled my gaze back and kept driving.
The shop sat on a quiet street, the window full of princess dresses and tiaras. Pink light spilled out, like a tiny fairy tale world. Laila pressed her nose against the glass, staring.
"Cassian, look! That one! The blue one! Like Elsa!"
"Wanna go in?"
She nodded frantically and dragged me inside.
The shop was bigger than it looked. Walls covered in photos—little princesses, fairies, pirates. A small vanity in the corner, loaded with glittery bottles. The air smelled faintly of strawberries—some kid-friendly makeup.
A girl with a high ponytail greeted us, smiling.
"Welcome! Mr. King? Are we styling this little princess today?"
"Yeah."
She crouched to Laila's level. "What do you want to be?"
Laila thought hard. "A princess. A singing princess."
"Perfect! A stage princess look—hair up, little crown, glitter on your face, and you can pick a nail polish color."
Laila turned to me, eyes shining.
"Cassian, can I?"
"Yeah."
She beamed and followed the stylist to the vanity. The chair was too tall, so they added a cushion. Laila climbed up, legs swinging, waiting patiently.
I pulled up a chair and watched.
Laila's golden curls spilled over her shoulders, catching the light. The stylist combed through them gently—they were so soft the brush glided right through.
"Your daughter has beautiful hair."
I didn't correct her. My chest swelled.
"Up or down?"
Laila studied herself in the mirror. "Up. Princesses always wear it up."
The stylist smiled. "Up it is."
Her hands moved quickly, weaving Laila's hair into something delicate and intricate.
When she finished, she pulled out a little crown—silver, studded with rhinestones, glittering under the lights.
"How about this?"
Laila nodded, eyes locked on the crown.
It sat perfectly on her updo, rhinestones catching the light. Laila stared at herself, then reached up to touch it, making sure it was real.
"Cassian, look!" She spun around, voice bubbling with joy.
"Gorgeous." I covered my mouth dramatically.
She laughed and turned back to the mirror.
Next came makeup. The stylist used kid-safe cosmetics—light colors, strawberry-scented—brushing them gently across Laila's face.
Then carefully placed glitter under her eyes. Piece by piece, like tiny stars landing on her cheeks.
Laila picked pink nail polish—peel-off, kid-friendly, odorless. She held out her short fingers, perfectly still, serious as if performing surgery.
After one hand was done, she held it up to me.
"Cassian, pretty?"
"Very."
"You want some?"
"I'm good."
"Just one!" She grabbed my hand, trying to pry my fingers open.
The stylist laughed.
I looked at my forced-open hand, then at Laila's hopeful face.
"Just one."
She nodded hard.
The stylist bit back a smile and painted clear polish on my ring finger. Laila inspected it and nodded in approval. "Now Cassian's a princess too."
I looked at my shiny finger, then at Laila in her crown.
"Let's go, Princess." I stood. "Concert's starting soon."
She hopped off the chair and ran to the full-length mirror for one last check. Then she ran back and grabbed my hand.
"Let's go, Cassian." Her hand was small, soft, nails pink.
The sun was behind us, turning the whole street gold. She walked beside me, crown sparkling, glitter catching the light.
Near the National Mall, the world had turned pink.
Girls everywhere in sequined skirts and cat-ear headbands. Me in a hoodie, pink unicorn backpack on my shoulders—totally out of place. But I felt relaxed. No bodyguards. No endless calls. I hoisted Laila onto my shoulders so she could see over the crowd to the massive stage.
Inside, we found our seats. Laila pulled out glow sticks and handed me one.
"Cassian, hold this. We wave them together."
"Got it."
The lights went down. The music started.
"Cassian! Look! It's Taylor!" Laila screamed, smacking my arm.
The familiar melody kicked in. Thousands of voices sang together, and I felt something electric shoot through me. Innocence. Joy. It radiated off Laila.
She sang along, voice small but fierce. She jumped, waving her hands, like a happy little bird.
I watched her. Bright. Carefree. Eyes full of light. And suddenly I saw what Luna must have been like as a kid—if her mother hadn't forced her to dance, hadn't demanded perfection. She would've been just like this. Laughing. Jumping.
In that moment, I dropped every bit of King family dignity. I waved my glow stick with Laila, shouting lyrics I'd crammed last night.
My voice was rough but free. I'd never yelled like this in my life. I'd been taught to shut up, endure, and protect myself with coldness. But now I was screaming at a concert with a little girl, and my heart felt light as air.
The chaos around us became sacred. I watched Laila's damp hairline, her flushed cheeks, her wild joy.
Endless satisfaction filled me. I wanted this moment to last forever.
When the concert ended, the moon hung over the Washington Monument.
The crowd thinned. The air still buzzed with leftover energy. Laila was tired. I bought her chocolate ice cream, and she ate it while I held her hand, walking toward the parking lot.
"Did you have fun today?" I asked softly, wiping cream off her nose.
"Super fun!" Laila looked up, eyes still sparkling. Then she stopped and stared at me.
"What? Do I have something on my face?" I crouched down to her level.
She bit her lip, voice suddenly small, pure.
"Cassian... I wish you were my real dad. Then I could tell Jenny my dad took me to the concert."
My breath stopped.
My chest felt like someone had shoved a rusty saw inside and started cutting. My throat closed. I couldn't speak.
If I hadn't been so cold that rainy night. If I hadn't been so controlling, so distrustful—maybe Laila would've been my daughter. We could've had countless nights like this.
I pulled her into my arms, trembling.
"Laila... I'm sorry." My voice cracked. "You don't need to envy anyone. If you want, you can think of me as your real dad, okay? I'll always be here. Whenever you need me, I'm here."
Laila patted my back like a little adult and sighed. "Okay. You're bad at bedtime stories, but you're a pretty good 'temporary dad.'"
I held her, afraid to speak, afraid I'd cry.
We got back home earlier than planned.
Laila had fallen asleep in the car, dried tears on her cheeks. I carried her upstairs carefully, laid her in her bed full of stuffed animals, took off her shoes, and tucked her in.
When I was done, I wiped the sweat off my face and headed downstairs for water.
In the quiet house, Luna's voice drifted from the half-open study door, tight with tension.
"Chloe, I know. But I'm not ready... the way he's changing scares me. I'm afraid this is just a dream."
I froze on the stairs. Inside, Chloe was on the phone with Luna. Luna's voice held a struggle I'd never heard before.
Chloe's voice was low but clear. "Luna, the longer you wait, the worse it gets—if you're planning to let them know they're father and daughter."
The words slammed into me.
Father and daughter.
They detonated in my brain.
My hand gripped the railing, knuckles white. My stomach twisted violently. My heart nearly burst.
Laila... father... daughter...
All the doubts I'd buried, the possibilities I'd dismissed—they shredded my fragile sanity in one second.
My blood ran backwards.
I'd missed five years of her life. Let her grow up alone in a foreign country, in the rain, without me.
I stood frozen in the stairwell shadows, a stone statue about to crumble, staring at that study door.