45. 45 – Zella
M y eyes flick up, lips pursing in disapproval as Ryder squirms in front of me.
“Do you think you could stay still?” I ask hopefully.
He lasts a whole minute this time, before raising his hand to scratch at an itch on the end of his nose. Groaning, I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Ryder!”
“Take it from the best,” Enzo drawls behind me. He’s lounging on a long chair, his legs dangling over the end as he watches my attempts to bring Ryder to life on a canvas. “The more you stay still, the less time it’ll take.”
Ryder holds his hand up, proudly displaying his middle finger to Enzo and completely breaking the careful pose I placed him in to paint. “You see this? Swivel on it.”
My head makes a thump as I bang it into my hands. “This was a terrible idea,” I mutter, and yelp as warm hands snake around my waist.
“I’m definitely more of an action person,” Ryder murmurs into my ear, making me squirm. “Why don’t I lay you down on that comfortable looking blanket and bury my tongue inside you instead?”
I swat his hands away grumpily. “No.”
“Princess,” he murmurs, and I turn, digging my finger into his chest and making him wince.
“You promised,” I say firmly, backing up and crossing my arms when he reaches for me again. “Nope. No sex until your painting is done.”
His eyes widen. “I can’t last that long.”
Throwing my hand out, I wave it at the empty space he just stepped down from. “Your podium awaits,” I say sweetly, and he groans.
“Besides,” I say loftily, picking my brush back up as he slumps back into his position. “I know exactly what you’re trying to do.”
“Oh?” Enzo purrs. “And what would that be?”
I turn, leveling him with an even look before dipping my brush into the bronze paint. “You’re trying to distract me.”
Enzo’s smile spreads across his face as he leans forward. “I can think of far better ways to distract you than this,” he breathes, and I nearly tip the whole palette over as I turn back to Ryder, resisting the urge to fan my face.
Swallowing, I force away the flare of heat between my legs. “I’m very aware that the results will be here today.”
Ryder twitches, but he stays where he is when I brandish the brush at him threateningly. His throat bobs as he shares a look with Enzo.
“Stop that.” My voice is almost absent-minded as I lean in, trying to get the sleekly curved muscle on Ryder’s arm just right. “I’m right here.”
“We’re worried about you,” Ryder says quietly. All mirth has disappeared from his voice, and I flick my eyes up to him and away again. My teeth sink into my lip as I shrug.
“What will be will be,” I mutter. My hand twitches, and there’s a gleaming line of bronze right across Ryder’s left shoulder. “Oh, shit .”
“Oooh,” Ryder says gleefully. “Profanity. We’re corrupting her, Enzo.”
I turn my head, biting the inside of my cheek to try and hide my smile. “I think it’s more Enzo, to be honest.”
Enzo’s low laugh sounds behind me as Ryder looks at me with wounded eyes. I can’t stop the laugh from slipping free, and his gaze narrows.
“I’m very, very good at corruption, I’ll have you know,” he says slowly. I look up from cleaning my brush. He’s advancing on me with a very intent look in his eyes, and I dance backwards with a giggle that cuts off as I hit a hard body.
“You can never be too corrupted,” Enzo murmurs in agreement. His hands hold my shoulders, and I swallow as Ryder presses into me, enclosing me between them.
“I agree,” Ryder says. His eyes drop to my lips. “So much to teach you, little thief.”
His lips have barely brushed mine when Maverick’s voice rings out. “Zella.”
His tone makes me freeze. Ryder brushes his hand over my cheek as he steps away, and Maverick comes into view. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his gaze heavy, and my eyes drop to the envelope in his hands. “It’s here?” I ask, my mouth drying.
Maverick nods, holding out the envelope. Enzo squeezes my shoulders again.
“Never alone,” he reminds me in a whisper. It’s enough to jolt me into reaching forward and taking the heavy cream envelope, turning it over in my hands. It’s blank.
“It can wait,” Maverick says gently. “If you’re not ready.”
His eyes are full of understanding, but I force the words out past the lump in my throat. “No, it can’t.”
This isn’t just about me. There are far more people than me waiting for the answers in this envelope. I’m not going to let my own hesitation leave them waiting any longer.
Taking a deep breath, I slide my finger under the tacky strip keeping it closed, ripping it in a jagged slash as I pull out and unfold the cream paper.
It takes me a few seconds to scan the first page, full of tables and numbers that make no sense to me. When I flip to the next page, my eyes drag down to a line.
Probability of paternity: 99%
I expected to feel shock, fear even, but all I feel is numb. I glance up at Maverick. He’s hovering, clearly desperate to know.
“It’s true,” I whisper. “I… Emerson is my father.”
And my name, my real name, is Aria Cooper.
My father is Emerson Cooper.
My mother was Maria Cooper.
I am Maverick’s shadow girl.
He catches me before my knees hit the ground, lifting me up and cradling me gently as he carries me out of the art studio. Enzo and Ryder are close behind, their voices bleeding into one cacophony of noise that sounds like the rush of water on the river.
Maverick’s arms are strong around me, and I press my ear to his chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat drown everything out. When I look up, he’s staring down at me, his eyes traveling across my face as though he’s seeing me for the very first time.
His eyes are damp, and he closes them when I reach up, catching a tear on my finger.
“Sorry,” he says roughly.
“Don’t.” I swallow. “Don’t apologize, Maverick. This is… good news.”
“Is it?” He searches my face, his forehead creasing. “Good news?”
My mother is dead, but I have a father. A living, breathing father who desperately wants to see me.
And I still have Maverick. I have Ryder. I have Enzo.
I’ve gone from having no-one, to having this .
Slowly, I nod, and take a breath, letting my lungs fill with oxygen. “Call him. Call Emerson.”
If this is a new beginning, I want it to be the best possible start it can be.
***
I’m sitting on the bottom step, gripping Ryder’s hand when a pounding sound comes from the front door. Three large bangs make me jump, and I freeze in place as Maverick steps forward to answer it.
His hand pauses on the handle as he turns to face me. “Are you ready?”
Am I?
I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for this. But I nod anyway, keeping hold of Ryder’s hand as I stand upright, brushing off my jeans and straightening my top. I drag my braid to the front, playing with it as Maverick pulls the door open. “Emerson.”
“Maverick.” I can hear the emotion in his voice, the choked sound, and it draws up an answering tightness in my own chest, a burning in my throat. “Is it true?”
Fear roots my feet to the floor, preventing me from moving as Maverick answers him.
Ryder squeezes my hand, and I turn to him, suddenly petrified.
What if he’s disappointed?
Ryder sees my agitation, and his face softens as he cups my cheek, reading the question on my face.
“Be proud of who you are, little thief,” he murmurs. “I would be proud to have a daughter just like you.”
My mind goes blank at that little bombshell, and he presses a kiss to my cheek with a small grin before he turns us to face the man who’s stopped in the middle of the hallway.
Emerson Cooper twists a hat in his hands, his eyes locked on my face. His face is wreathed in exhaustion, more so than the last time I saw him. Deep purple circles sit beneath his blue eyes, the lines on his weathered face deep. His mouth parts as I step forward.
We watch each other in silence. I wonder if he’s looking for familiarity in my face, searching for the memories of the daughter he lost in the shape of my face, my nose, my cheekbones.
I shift on my feet, uncertain how to approach this. “Um. Hello.”
He swallows, the sound audible in the quiet of the hallway. “Hello, Zella.”
His voice cracks on my name, and he presses a hand over his mouth as I take a step forward, my hand automatically raising. “I’m – I’m sorry—,”
A tear slides from his eye, and then another, and he buries his face in his hands. “Damn it,” he whispers shakily. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.”
The grumbled words remind me so much of myself that it brings a smile to my lips. Carefully, I reach out and take his hands, tugging them away from his face.
“I don’t think there’s a right or wrong way to do this,” I tell him ruefully. “So… maybe we could start with coffee?”
He gives me a relieved smile. “I like coffee. Probably too much.”
“Me too.”
The guys follow us as I lead Emerson down to the kitchen, and he takes a seat at the table as I start to brew the fresh coffee. I sneak little glances at him, our eyes connecting before we both look away.
The third time, we both laugh. “This is a little awkward,” I admit truthfully, taking cups from the cupboard. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to act.”
“That makes two of us.” Emerson nods in thanks as I put a steaming cup in front of him, his fingers curling around it. “I never thought…I never thought something like this would happen. Now that it has, it doesn’t seem real.”
I take a seat silently next to him, and Maverick looks between us. “We’ll give you some privacy,” he says softly. Enzo’s mouth tightens, and Ryder opens his mouth as if he’s going to protest, but they both follow him out of the kitchen, leaving us in silence.
“Will you… tell me about yourself?” he asks quietly. “I’d like to know more about your life.”
Ah.
“How much has Maverick told you?”
Emerson shakes his head. “Only the bare bones of what happened. I’ll admit that when I found out you were alive… the details didn’t matter so much. Now, though… I would very much like to know what happened, Zella, if you’re comfortable talking about it.”
He swallows, hard. I glance down to where his fingers are gripping his cup tightly, neatly trimmed nails still bearing the traces of paint.
And I start to talk.
I tell him about my childhood, in the apartment. How I grew up surrounded by statues. How much I loved to draw, and how much I loved to watch the sunrise every morning. I try to skirt around Ethan as best I can, but eventually, his name comes up.
“Ethan.” Emerson’s eyes close. “I never thought… but it makes sense.”
“Did you know him?” I whisper, and he nods.
“Very well. The art community is a close one, and Ethan and I have crossed paths many times over the years. If I’d only known then.” His face creases in anger. “I never suspected him, but in hindsight, perhaps I should have.”
“Why?”
He clears his throat. “He was obsessed with your – with Maria. He’d often say that she was his muse, and it made her uncomfortable. She started avoiding him, eventually, and I asked him to stop coming to the gallery.”
He takes a deep breath. “That was a few months before the fire.”
My mind races as I stare mindlessly out of the window. “So he may well have started the fire?”
Emerson nods. “I believe so.”
Ethan started a fire that killed my mother, and he took me away. Locked me up, and pretended that he’d saved me from some mysterious, terrible fate.
“I never questioned it,” I say numbly. “Not until the end.”
Emerson’s hand brushes mine. “You were a child,” he says gently. “None of this was your fault, Zella. I should have looked. You were my daughter, and you were right here, in the same city. All this time… I’m sorry.”
“There’s only one person at fault,” I say softly when his voice begins to shake. “And he’s not in this room.”
Emerson draws in a shuddering breath. “Maybe not. But we will find him.”
His voice is grim, and I swallow down the lump in my throat. I still don’t know how I feel about Ethan.
Emerson senses my hesitance and changes the subject. He reaches into his pocket, drawing out a bundle wrapped with a band. “I thought you might like to see these.”
My heart jumps inside my chest as he tugs the band off and starts placing photographs down on the table. Images of me as a baby, Emerson holding me up with a grin on his younger face. I pick up a photo of Maria. She’s looking out of a window, her hair curling around her face.
“She had hair like yours,” Emerson says softly. His fingers brush the photograph. “Not quite as long, though.”
I half-laugh, picking up my braid. “I really need to cut it. What was she like?”
“Oh, she was wild.” He grins. “She rarely stopped moving. This was an unusually peaceful moment, so I took it while I could. But Maria… she was a whirl of motion. Always looking for new adventures. And her art… her art was beautiful. She was a painter.”
“I’d like to see her art.” My chest aches as I stare at the photo. “I… I sketch. I never really painted before, but the guys set me up an art studio, and I’ve been practicing.”
He clears his throat. “And they are treating you well? You’re happy here?”
I pick up another photo. A small boy is holding a sleeping baby, his eyes wide as he looks down. “Yes,” I tell him. “I’m very happy here.”
After another hour and a second coffee, Emerson gets up to leave. I walk with him to the front door, and he turns to face me.
“I never thought that I would have this,” he says softly. “Seeing you, talking with you… it has been everything, Zella. Would you be willing to come to the gallery, soon? I could show you some of Maria’s art. And I’d very much like to see yours.”
My cheeks flush. “I’d like that.”
He opens his arms uncertainly, before closing them again. “Sorry.”
“No,” I say quietly. Moving up to him, I wrap my arms around him gently. He smells earthy, a mixture of linseed oil and the slight tang of tarps. Familiar, in a far-off way.
His eyes are glassy when I step back. “I’ll see you soon,” he says hoarsely.
When I push the door shut, Maverick slips out of his office, pulling the door closed behind him. “How was it?”
“Good,” I admit. “It was… good. He’s a very kind man.”
“He is.”
It’s a start.