17.0
Hello?" My voice was cautious.
"Where are you." It wasn't a question. More like a strike.
I froze. "I... I'm home. Why?"
"I need to see you."
Something in me jolted. The way he said it—hard, clipped—made my skin prickle. "Brooks, it's late. You can't just—"
"I don't care what time it is," he cut in. "Where are you?"
I pressed a hand against the counter, grounding myself. "You're scaring me. What's going on?"
"Don't do that," he snapped, and then his voice dipped low, tight. "Just tell me where you are."
"I already said—I'm home. But that doesn't mean—"
"I need the address, Amira."
Panic climbed my throat. "Are you sure you want to do this right now?" I asked carefully, trying to buy time, to steer him back to reason. "Whatever this is, it can wait until tomorrow—"
"No, it can't." His voice cracked sharp with certainty. "It can't wait another hour. Not another minute. I need to see you."
I swallowed. "Brooks, please. I don't think that's a good idea."
"You don't think," he repeated, a bite in his tone. "You've been deciding what I should and shouldn't know for long enough. Not tonight. Tonight, I'm deciding."
The words stung, though I had no idea what he thought I was keeping from him. My pulse spiked at the thought of him showing up here, of Alina padding downstairs in her pajamas, of him putting the pieces together before I was ready.
"Brooks, just—calm down. Tell me what happened. Why are you—"
"I'm not explaining myself over the phone," he said flatly. "I need to see you."
I squeezed my eyes shut. He wasn't letting go. Not of the tone, not of the demand. Rage threaded through his steadiness, a raw edge that wasn't like him—or maybe it was him stripped of the polish he usually wore like armor.
"Are you sure we can't talk about this over the phone," I whispered. "Or I can come by tomorrow."
"I'm coming," he said. No hesitation. "You either give me the address, or I'll find it myself."
My breath caught. He wasn't bluffing—I knew he wasn't.
The silence stretched until it broke me. I gave him the street name. The number.
His exhale sounded almost like a laugh, bitter around the edges. "Thank you."
And then the line went dead.
I stood there, phone slack in my hand, heart pounding like I'd just signed my own name to a secret I'd spent years protectig.
I forced my feet to move, padding up the steps two at a time, ears tuned for the smallest sound.
I pushed Alina's door open a crack.
She was there, small body curled beneath the blanket, hair spilling across the pillow. One arm had slipped out, hand open, fingers twitching the way they did when she dreamed. Her breathing was steady, soft enough to almost trick me into believing none of this was happening.
I stood there, holding the doorframe, letting my chest ache with the sight. Safe. Asleep. Unaware.
Back in my room, I peeled off the work clothes I'd never bothered to change out of and pulled on sweats, a hoodie. Armor, but the flimsy kind. My hands shook while I tied the drawstrings.
By the time I went downstairs again, my mind was already racing through a thousand scenarios of how to explain... or how not to. What would he say? What would he see?
The air outside hit cool against my skin. The porch light cast everything in that washed-out yellow that made the neighborhood look quieter than it was. I wrapped my arms around myself and sat on the top step, eyes glued to the street.
Every sound made me flinch—the engine down the block, the rustle of branches, the faint squeal of brakes two streets over. My stomach churned like I was waiting for something I couldn't stop, couldn't undo.
And I was.
I'd given him the address. Brooks was coming.
Headlights washed across the porch before I even heard the engine. My chest tightened as his car slowed, then cut off right in front of the house.
Not Monte. Not tinted windows. Brooks got out himself. Jacket half-buttoned, tie loose, like he'd come straight from something important and hadn't even thought twice before driving here.
The slam of the door made me flinch.
He crossed the walk fast, jaw tight, eyes locked on me. For a second, I thought he might barrel past me entirely, straight through the front door.
"Brooks—no." I stepped down one stair, planting myself between him and the entrance. My voice came out sharper than I meant, but it didn't slow him.
"I just want to see," he bit out, reaching for the handle.
"No." The word cracked, firmer this time. "You don't get to walk in here like you own the place."
That stopped him. Barely. His chest rose and fell hard, his hands flexing at his sides.
"You've been talking to me for weeks," he said, voice low but shaking with heat.
"Calling. Laughing. Letting me think—" He broke off, shook his head.
"And all this time, you've got a kid? A whole child you never thought to mention?"
My throat went dry. "Brooks—"
"No." He cut me off, eyes blazing. "Don't 'Brooks' me. Do you have any idea what it felt like, sitting at that table tonight, hearing it from—him?" His lip curled like Kian's name tasted rotten. "Like I'm some stranger who doesn't deserve the truth."
"I wasn't hiding her from you," I snapped back before I could stop myself. "I was protecting her."
That gave him pause. Just a flicker. Enough for me to see the cracks in the rage: confusion, hurt, something heavier underneath.
His voice dropped, ragged now. "Do you live with her dad? Is that why you didn't want me coming here?"
"It's not that," I whispered.
His eyes narrowed. "Then who?"
Silence stretched between us. I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
"Who's her father, Amira?" His tone was steady now, terrifyingly so.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. My guilt must have been painted all over my face, because I didn't even need to answer.
I watched it land in him, slow and brutal. His features shifted—anger draining out, replaced by dawning horror. His mouth parted like the words were there but refused to come out.
He took a step back, shaking his head once, then again, harder. "No."
I couldn't breathe.
His eyes locked on mine, wide and broken. For the first time in the years I'd known him, Brooks looked speechless.
Brooks staggered back another step like the air itself had hit him. His hand dragged over his mouth, then dropped, fingers curling into a fist.
"No," he said again, louder this time. "Tell me I'm wrong."
"Brooks, please—"
"Tell me!" His voice ricocheted off the porch, off the quiet street, too big for the space between us.
Tears burned my eyes before I could stop them. My throat clogged with the words I couldn't string together.
He laughed then, a sharp, ugly sound that didn't belong to him. "Jesus Christ. All those questions in the park. About family. About kids. You—you knew. You've been sitting across from me this whole time, looking me in the face, asking me if I want children, knowing I already have one?"
"I wasn't—"
"You were," he cut over me, voice like steel. "You were lining me up, seeing if I'd measure. You let me sit there and tell you things I don't tell anyone, while you were hiding the only thing that mattered."
The tears slipped free, hot streaks down my face. "I was scared," I choked. "You don't understand—"
"Don't understand?" He shook his head violently. "You think I wouldn't have been there? You think I wouldn't have—" His voice cracked, but he barreled on, shouting over the break. "You didn't even give me the choice! Do you get that?"
"I wanted to protect her," I sobbed, arms wrapping around myself. "It wasn't about you."
"Of course it was about me," he spat, fury sparking again.
"Everything about this is about me. My blood, my name—you stole that from me. And then you let me—" He dragged his hand down his face again, trembling.
"You let me fall back into you. You let me kiss you, let me think—God, Amira, what the fuck is wrong with you?"
I shook my head, unable to stop crying. The words tumbled out between gasps. "I didn't know how. I didn't know how to tell you."
He let out a bitter laugh, raw and gutted. "So you just didn't. You let me walk blind into it, let him—" his voice cut with venom on Kian's name even unspoken, "—say it first. In front of everyone."
"Brooks, stop—"
"Stop?" His eyes burned into mine, a storm of betrayal and grief. "You don't get to tell me to stop. Not when you've been holding my daughter under your roof for god knows how long like I was some stranger who didn't deserve to know."
The word—daughter—broke me. I doubled over, sobbing, pressing my palms to my face, but his rage rolled over my smallness like a tide.
I tried to speak, my lips forming fragments of explanations, but he didn't let them breathe. He was too far gone, too raw.
Every sentence was a blow, and every tear I shed only seemed to stoke him further.
Brooks's voice tore through me again, jagged and merciless.
"You let me touch you," he said, his words spitting fire. "You let me put my hands on you, my mouth on you, knowing the entire time what you'd stolen. What you were keeping from me. Do you know how sick that feels now?"
"Stop it," I cried, shaking my head hard, but the tears kept coming. "Don't say it like that—"
"Like what? The truth?" He barked a laugh, ragged and furious. "You built a whole life without me. You decided who I get to be before I ever had a say."
"You were getting married!" My voice cracked. "You think I wasn't scared? You think I didn't sit up every night wondering if I should call you, if I should ruin your life before it even started? You already picked your campaign over me how was I supposed to know you wouldn't do the same to her."
"Picked my campaign over you? Amira are you listening to yourself right now.?" He stepped closer, towering over me, every inch of him vibrating with hurt. "Ruin my life? She should've been my life from the second she breathed."
The words gutted me. My sobs were broken things now, clawing out of my throat. I wanted to reach for him, to make him hear me, but he wouldn't let me in.
"You could've told me," he said, lower now but no softer. "You should've told me. Four years ago. Two years ago. Last week. Any one of those times, Amira."
"I didn't want you to find out like that." I whispered, my voice shredded.
"But you made it possible," Brooks shot back, his chest heaving. "By saying nothing. By letting it fester in the dark until it blew up in my face. You could've trusted me." His voice cracked, fury strangled by something smaller, sharper. "You were supposed to trust me."
The porch was so quiet now, only the sound of my crying filling the air. Brooks turned his head away like even looking at me burned.
When he finally spoke again, it was quieter, but it landed harder than anything he'd shouted.
"Why?"
I pressed my trembling hands to my face, but he didn't let me hide. His voice cut through the night.
"Why would you keep my daughter from me?"
His jaw tightened, horror edging back into his expression. He looked at me then like he was trying to unsee everything, like he wanted to erase the porch, the night, the years between us.
He backed down one step, hands curling into fists at his sides. His breath came fast, unsteady, but his voice was cold, final.
"You don't get to play victim, Amira. Not tonight."
I reached out, catching his wrist before he could storm past me. His skin was hot under my hand, his pulse a frantic thrum against my palm.
"Don't drive," I said, voice trembling. "You're not thinking straight. Please—don't leave like this. Stay. Just... stay."
For the first time all night, he looked at me instead of through me. His jaw flexed hard, like he was fighting something down. Then he gave a sharp, humorless laugh.
"Now I'm invited inside?" The ridicule in his tone cut deep, bitter as glass. "That's nice, Amira."
I shook my head quickly. "It's not like that—"
But he was already pulling free, shaking off my hand like the touch burned. His eyes were darker than I'd ever seen them, his mouth a thin, furious line.
"I can't even look at you right now," he said, low and final.
"I never expected this from you," he said. "My parents? Sure. Margot? Every damn day. But you—" He shook his head like the thought alone disgusted him. "Not you."
The words landed like a slap.
And with that, he turned, stepping off the porch into the dark, leaving me standing there—wrecked, ruined, and guilty—with the sound of his footsteps carrying every ounce of rage and betrayal I'd just watched tear him apart.
The engine roared to life, headlights cutting across the porch before disappearing into the night. I stood frozen, the sound of him tearing down the street echoing long after he was gone.
The air felt wrong without him in it—harsher, emptier. My arms wrapped tight around myself, trying to hold together what he'd just ripped open.
I sank onto the porch step, the wood cool beneath me, my whole body shaking. The night was too quiet now, so quiet it made my sobs louder, uglier. I pressed my palms to my face and tried to breathe, but every breath came jagged, shallow.
Behind me, the house waited. Still. Unknowing.
I forced my legs to move, dragging myself back inside, shutting the door soft so it wouldn't echo. Each stair creaked under my weight as I climbed.
At Alina's door, I stopped. I pushed it open a crack.
She hadn't moved. Still curled small beneath her blanket, breathing soft and even. One hand tucked under her cheek. Peaceful. Untouched by the wreckage that had just gutted me.
I pressed my forehead against the doorframe, letting the ache split me clean down the middle.
For her, I'd done everything. For her, I'd kept it all in the dark. And now, because of that, the truth had come out like this—scorched earth, nothing left but ruins.
I pulled the door shut again before my crying could wake her.
Back in my room, I slid down against the wall, clutching my hoodie tight around me. The porch light still glowed outside, casting a faint yellow through the curtains like it hadn't witnessed anything at all.
But I had.
And so had he.