46. Syn
46
SYN
A sound escapes me, something feral and raw. I try not to frighten her with the force of my desperation and relax my death grip on her.
“Amélie,” I croak, my voice breaking around the endearment.
She’s studying my face, but there is recognition in her eyes. How?
“Daddy said you went to heaven,” she says, her voice small but matter of fact. “He said angels took you away.”
I stifle my noise of pain. Jeremy told my daughter I was dead? Made her believe she was an orphan dependent solely on him? The cruelty of it steals my breath.
“I wasn’t in heaven, sweetheart,” I say carefully, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I was looking for you. I’ve been looking for you for so, so long.”
Confusion clouds her face. “But Daddy said?—”
“I know, love,” I interrupt gently. “But Daddy made a mistake. I’m here, and I’ve missed you every single day.”
Amélie glances at Tarquin as if seeking confirmation. He nods, his expression gentler than I’ve ever seen it.
“Your mummy has been very brave looking for you,” he tells her, his cultured voice pitched soft and reassuring. “She never stopped trying to find you.”
Amélie appears to consider this, her small face serious beyond her years. Then, hesitantly, she holds up the dog-eared photograph clutched in her tiny hand.
“I kept your picture,” she says, offering it like a precious gift. “Caroline helped me hide it.”
The photograph shows me holding Amélie as a baby, both of us laughing at something outside the frame. I remember the moment perfectly—Jeremy had taken the photo before he took her from me, before he revealed his true nature.
“You kept my picture,” I echo, tears flowing freely now. “That was so clever of you.”
She nods solemnly. “I looked at it every night and said goodnight. Caroline said you could hear me.”
A fresh wave of emotion crashes over me. This Caroline—whoever she is—preserved my memory for my daughter when Jeremy tried to erase it. I owe her a debt I can never repay. I see Declan and Tarquin exchange a glance over this Caroline. Clearly, she wasn’t in the house. I just hope she’s okay.
“I did hear you,” I whisper. “In my heart, I heard you every night.”
“Can I...” she begins, then stops, suddenly shy.
“What is it, sweetheart?” I prompt gently.
“Can I touch your hair?” she asks in a tiny voice. “To make sure you’re real?”
The request so perfectly encapsulates the surreal nature of our reunion that a startled laugh escapes me, tangled with tears. “Of course you can.”
Her fingers, impossibly delicate, touch a strand of my hair with wondering caution. “It’s soft,” she declares, something shifting in her expression.
The simple statement unravels something tight and painful in my chest.
“Would you like to sit with me?” I ask, careful to frame it as a question, not a demand. “Just for a little while?”
Amélie hesitates. I hold my breath.
After what feels like an eternity, she nods. “Okay.”
She slides from my hold with cautious movements. We climb in the SUV, and she settles onto my lap with the wariness of a child testing thin ice.
She’s heavier than I remember, her body solid and real against mine.
“Hi,” I whisper into her hair as she wiggles to make herself more comfortable.
“Hi,” she whispers back, still clutching her photograph.
We sit like that for long moments, reacquainting ourselves with each other’s presence. I fight the urge to pepper her with questions, to demand details of the years I’ve missed. There will be time for that. For now, this tentative reconnection is enough.
The car shifts as larger bodies enter and doors close quietly, but my focus remains entirely on the small figure in my lap.
“Are you coming home with me?” Amélie asks suddenly, her voice uncertain.
The question confuses me momentarily until I realise—in her understanding, “home” is still Jeremy’s house. She doesn’t know that home will be wherever we are together.
“We’re both going to a new home,” I explain gently. “A safe place where we can be together.”
She frowns. “What about Daddy?”
I exchange a quick glance with Tristan, who has returned to the seat beside me. His subtle nod encourages me to be honest, if simplified.
“Daddy won’t be coming with us,” I say carefully. “He has to... stay behind.”
Amélie absorbs this, her expression unreadable. “Forever?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Forever.”
I wait for tears, for protest, for some sign of distress at being separated from the man who has been her sole parent for two years. Instead, Amélie’s small shoulders relax almost imperceptibly.
“Okay,” she says simply, then adds, “he shouts a lot.”
The casual revelation reveals volumes about her life with Jeremy. I swallow hard, fighting a fresh surge of rage at what he’s put her through.
“There won’t be any shouting in our new home,” I promise her. “Just lots of hugs, if you want them.”
She considers this, head tilted thoughtfully. “I like hugs.”
“Me too,” I whisper.
Tarquin sets off, and I realise we don’t have any of her things. Not a single thing except what she’s wearing. I glance at Tristan in panic, but he smiles. “We’ll get everything you both need.”
Driving away from Jeremy’s house feels surreal. Away from two years of separation and pain. Tristan’s hand rests reassuringly against my thigh, his presence a steady anchor as I hold onto the emotions wanting to drown me.
“I have questions,” Amélie announces.
A smile tugs at my lips despite the tears still drying on my cheeks. “What questions, love?”
“Who are these men?” she asks, gesturing around the car. “Are they princes? He says not, but I think he is.” She jabs her tiny finger at Tarquin.
Tristan chuckles softly beside me. Tarquin’s eyes meet mine briefly in the rearview mirror, a hint of amusement warming their blue depths.
“Not princes,” I tell her, feeling a genuine smile form for the first time in hours. “They’re very special friends who helped me find you.”
“The tall one said you’re friends,” she confirms, nodding toward the front where Declan sits beside Tarquin. “But he looks scary.”
“Declan can look scary,” I agree softly, “but he has a very kind heart. They all do.”
“Like in my stories Caroline read to me,” Amélie decides, clearly satisfied with this explanation. Caroline again. I glance at Tarquin in the rearview mirror, and he nods. We will find her. Make sure she’s okay.
“Something like that,” Tristan agrees. His voice is deliberately gentle, calibrated not to startle.
Amélie studies him with undisguised curiosity. “You have nice eyes,” she informs him seriously.
“Thank you,” he responds, matching her solemnity. “I think you have nice eyes too. They look just like your mummy’s.”
This comparison seems to please her. She turns back to me, reaching up to touch my face with tentative fingers.
Daring to catch her exploring fingers, I press a kiss to their tips. “I’m never going away again.”
She nods, accepting this promise with the simple faith of childhood. Then, with a suddenness that takes my breath away, she leans forward and wraps her arms around my neck.
The hug is brief and careful, but it shatters me, nonetheless. I return the pressure with equal gentleness, memorising the feel of her in my arms again.
Amélie’s breathing slows, her weight becoming heavier against me as exhaustion claims her. The events of the night—strangers appearing, being carried from the only home she remembers, reunion with a mother she thought dead—have overwhelmed her small reserves.
Her eyes flutter closed. One hand still clutches the worn photograph; the other finds my finger and wraps around it with surprising strength.
I look down at my sleeping daughter, this miracle I thought I might never hold again, and meet Tristan’s warm gaze.
“She’s really here,” I whisper, still hardly believing it myself.
“She’s really here,” he confirms, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from Amélie’s forehead. “And she’s never leaving again.”
“Thank you,” I croak as tears slip down my cheeks again. “I can never repay you.”
“Well,” Tarquin says with a smirk as I catch his eyes again. “You can give me back that half a mil and call it even.”
“What?” I stammer.
“Tarq,” Tristan says sharply.
“What?” he says with a shrug. “She is no longer an escort. We will take care of her.”
“I earned that,” I say with narrowed eyes.
“You earned a hell of a lot more than that,” Declan mutters.
“Okay, so keep it for Amélie’s university fees,” Tarquin concedes with a sly smile.
Giggling, I shake my head. “You are an arse.”
“Never denied it.”
“But you are my arse.”
Tristan snorts loudly, and I stop myself from laughing too hard and shaking Amélie awake. “Okay, that sounded better in my head.”
The mood lightens to something I haven’t felt in a very long time. These men—these alphas who’ve claimed me—have given me back my heart. My daughter. As we drive through the night toward our uncertain future, Amélie’s fingers tighten around mine in sleep, anchoring me to the only certainty that matters: we are together. Finally, impossibly, together.