Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Mia
"Mommy, will you sing the Moonlight Lullaby tonight?"
Lily perched at the edge of my vanity, chin resting on her folded arms, those gray-blue eyes sparkling under the lights. She was only four, but she'd already mastered that look—the one that made saying no impossible. Must be innate, because I sure as hell didn't teach her that.
I bent down and kissed her forehead. "If you let Aunt Emma brush your teeth and wash your face, and go to bed, then maybe Mommy will consider it."
"Then I'll be extra good today!" She raised her little hand like she was taking an oath, then tilted her head at me. "But Mommy, why do you cry every time you sing that song?"
My hand froze.
Because I wrote it for you, baby. For you, who I thought would disappear with me.
But I didn't say that. I just smiled and pinched her little nose. "Because Mommy's a crybaby."
"No, you're not!" She shook her head seriously. "Mommy's the bravest mommy ever!"
My heart melted completely. This little person, this miracle that grew inside my body, this light in my darkest days—she'd never know how many times she'd saved me.
Five years ago, I fell from that cliff. Ice-cold river water flooded my lungs. I thought that was the end.
But fate had other plans for me.
The current washed me ashore, soaked through, barely alive.
An old fisherman who lived downstream found me and carried me back to his ramshackle cabin.
I lay there for three days, burning with fever, consciousness swinging between waking and oblivion.
The old man didn't know medicine—just boiled mountain herbs and made me drink them.
On the fourth day, I woke up.
More than woke up—I remembered.
Those memories I'd forgotten for over a decade came flooding back like a broken dam.
I remembered the white stone house from my childhood, the lighthouse on the cliff, the salty taste of sea wind.
I remembered a woman's face—her features resembled mine, laugh lines crinkling at her eyes—my mother's face.
I remembered her holding me, crying.
"The prophet said she'll spread the Siren's voice," Mother told Father, voice low, but every word pierced my heart like needles. "They say her voice can control minds, bring disaster..."
I remembered that night. My parents lifted me from bed and wrapped me in a thick cloak. Mother pressed something cold against my throat—a stone carved with runes, glowing faintly. She chanted words I couldn't understand, and then I felt something sink down, deep into my body, sealed away.
"Now they won't find you." Mother kissed my forehead, tears dropping on my face. "You'll forget everything. Forget us, forget your identity. You'll grow up safe and be ordinary. Forgive us, child. Forgive us."
I saw firelight. Heard my parents screaming. Saw people burst into our home, swords flashing cold, blood spattering.
Then someone carried me, running desperately. I started burning with fever, consciousness blurring.
When I woke again, I was an orphan with no past. Didn't know where I came from, who my parents were, why my throat was silent.
I only knew my name was Mia.
The nuns at the orphanage gave me that name—they said it was embroidered on my clothes. I thought about it countless times afterward—Mother must have stitched it there herself, afraid I'd forget even my own name.
I grew up in that orphanage. Because I couldn't speak, no family wanted me. When I was older, I worked there, surviving on meager wages.
Until that day by the river. I fell, watching Zane, hatred surging, and I spoke my first words.
Rejecting my fated mate.
In that moment, I heard something shatter.
Like chains breaking, a seal lifting, power that had slept for twenty years finally waking. My voice burst from my throat with a penetration and resonance I couldn't understand.
Later, after I recovered, my voice grew stronger each day. I started singing in bars, then small venues, then music festivals, then national tours. I took the stage name Vela—ancient word for "sail," symbolizing voyage, searching, restless motion.
I wasn't that helpless little girl anymore. I had my own power, my own career, a daughter who needed my protection.
Lily's father—I'd never told anyone about him. That memory hurt too much to touch.
Lily was mine. Only mine.
"Mommy," Lily tugged my sleeve, pulling me from my thoughts. "You're spacing out."
I snapped back, smiling as I ruffled her hair. "Mommy was thinking about which dress to wear onstage tonight."
"The blue one!" Lily lit up immediately. "The sparkly one! You look prettiest in that!"
"Then that's what I'll wear."
I stood and walked to the rack, taking down the deep blue performance dress. The hem was covered in tiny crystals that sparkled like starlight under the lights. I'd had it custom-made for this tour, every crystal hand-sewn. When I wore it, I felt like I was draped in a night sky.
Lily sat nearby, swinging her legs, humming songs from my new album. Perfect pitch, strong rhythm—she'd inherited my talent completely.
"Alright," I finished my makeup and crouched to meet Lily's eyes. "Mommy has to work now. Be good for Aunt Emma, and when I get back, I'll bring you ice cream, okay?"
"Okay!" Lily answered brightly, then threw her arms around my neck and planted a loud kiss on my cheek. "Go get 'em, Mommy!"
I held her, eyes closed, memorizing the warmth of this moment.
Then I let go, stood up, and walked toward the stage.
The show was a success.
Every seat filled. Glow sticks formed a colorful ocean. I sang every song from the new album, the hits, that lullaby I wrote for Lily. On the last line, my eyes still stung, but the lights were dim—no one saw.
After the final song, the crowd's roar nearly lifted the roof. I bowed, waved goodbye, and exited through applause and screams.
Then my legs buckled.
Here we go again.
Low blood sugar was an old problem. The tour schedule was brutal—I often skipped meals. After every show, the dizziness hit.
I made it to the dressing room. Suddenly, everything went black. But the pain I expected never came—someone caught me.
My vision was dark, but then I tasted something sweet in my mouth—honey.
Consciousness returned slowly. I opened my eyes. The dressing room lights stung. I squinted, taking several seconds to focus.
Then I saw that face.
Gray-blue eyes. That infuriatingly sharp jawline. And that expression I never wanted to see again—shock mixed with regret.
Zane Caster. My fated mate. The man who'd sent me to my death five years ago.
He knelt beside me, one hand cradling my head, the other holding a half-empty honey jar. He looked like he'd crawled off a battlefield—wrinkled clothes, hair like a hurricane hit it, dark circles under his eyes.
He stared at me, lips moving like he wanted to speak, but his throat was blocked.
I sat up.
Too fast. Vision went black again, but I steadied myself against the sofa. I looked down—performance dress still on, mask not on my face. When the low blood sugar hit, my mask had slipped off.
Which meant Zane had seen my face.
"Mia—" He finally spoke, voice scraped raw.
"You've got the wrong person," I said.
His expression looked like he'd been slapped.
"What?"
"I said, you've got the wrong person." I stood and walked around him to the mirror.
The face in the reflection was pale, but the eyes were steady.
I bent down, picked up the silver mask from the floor, and put it back on.
Fingers steady. Not shaking at all. "I'm Vela.
That name you mentioned—I don't know it. "
"Impossible." He stood too. His movements were unsteady, like his knees had gone numb from kneeling too long. He stood behind me, looking at me through the mirror, those gray-blue eyes churning with too many emotions—shock, pain, and a desperate stubbornness. "Your face, your scent, your—"
"Could be a coincidence." I cut him off, turned around, crossed my arms, looking at him like a stranger. "Lots of people look alike."
I saw his jaw muscle tighten. His Adam's apple bobbed, swallowing something bitter. He opened his mouth to speak, but I didn't give him the chance.
"Security!" I raised my voice toward the door.
Two large men burst in. They saw the scene and immediately went on alert.
"Sir," the lead guard stepped forward, blocking the space between us. "You need to leave. Now."
"Mia—" He kept saying my name, voice edged with desperate stubbornness.
"I said, you've got the wrong person." My voice was flat as still water. "Please leave. Or I'll take stronger measures."
He looked at me.
Those gray-blue eyes held too much—shock, regret, pain, and that pleading look of a drowning man grasping at the last piece of driftwood. He stood there, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the dressing room's warm yellow light, looking like a statue about to crumble.
"You..." His raspy voice began. "Rest well..."
Then he turned and left.
I stood there, staring at that closed door, and counted to ten.
Then I walked to the table, picked up the cold honey water, and drained it.
The honey was sweet. Sweet enough to taste bitter.
What I didn't expect was that for the next three days, he followed me like a ghost.
Not in that creepy, hiding-behind-dumpsters way—he was completely obvious about it.
Across from my hotel was a café. Every morning at eight sharp, he appeared at the window seat, ordered black coffee, and sat there watching the hotel entrance.
When I went to the theater for rehearsal, he stood under the streetlamp across the street, hands in his coat pockets, like a forgotten statue on the sidewalk.
My security team reported to me daily. "That man's here again, Miss Vela. Should we—"
"No need." I didn't look up from my sheet music. "Let him stand there. When he gets tired, he'll leave."
But he didn't leave.