I Hate You
Christian followed her through the glass doors and into the quiet, dimly lit hallway beyond the terrace. The muffled jazz and laughter from the party faded behind them, replaced by the sharp echo of Melody’s heels on the marble floor.
“Melody!” His voice cracked with urgency. “Melody, listen!”
She didn’t slow. Her burgundy gown swirled around her legs as she strode forward, shoulders rigid, fists clenched at her sides.
He broke into a run, long strides closing the distance, until he caught up and gently but firmly wrapped his fingers around her elbow.
“Melody, please—”
She twirled sharply, yanking her arm free with such force that her long hair whipped across her face.
“What do you want!” Her voice was low, venomous, trembling with barely contained rage.
Christian raised both hands, breathing hard.
“I—”
“You what?” She stepped closer, eyes blazing behind the remnants of her composed mask. “Why are you here? Here to torment me again? Where’s Victoria? Ashley?” She looked over his shoulders, scanning the empty corridor as if expecting them to emerge from the shadows.
“There’s no one with me,” he said quickly, voice rough. “Please.” He was panting now, chest rising and falling. “Can we please talk? I want to tell you something.”
Melody’s laugh was short, bitter, cutting.
“I don’t want to hear anything.”
“Melody, just—”
“No!” She cut him off, stepping even closer, voice rising despite the quiet hallway. “You ruined my night! I hate you! I hate your face!”
Christian’s expression crumpled. His eyes filled with tears... sudden, raw, unstoppable.
“You don’t mean that,” he whispered, voice breaking.
“I do,” she said, each word sharp and deliberate. “Every word.”
She turned on her heel and walked away... fast, purposeful, burgundy satin flowing behind her like spilled wine.
“Melody…” His voice cracked again. “Melody, listen!”
But she didn’t stop.
She didn’t slow.
She didn’t look back.
Her heels echoed down the corridor until she disappeared around the corner.
Christian stood alone in the hallway, hands falling uselessly to his sides.
Tears slipped down his cheeks.
He didn’t wipe them away.
He just stared after her, after the woman he had once loved, once hated, once destroyed, until the sound of her footsteps faded completely.
And in the silence that followed, the weight of everything he had lost settled heavier than ever.
She was gone.
Again.
And he wasn’t sure she would ever let him catch up.
×××××××
Melody pushed through the heavy door of the private restroom just off the main hallway, the sound of the party muffled instantly behind her.
The space was quiet and elegant... marble counters, soft golden sconces, a large mirror framed in antique gold.
She let the door swing shut and leaned back against it for a second, breathing hard, as though the air itself had grown too thick to pull in.
Then she walked to the sink.
Her reflection stared back, flushed cheeks, burgundy satin still perfect, long dark hair cascading like ink over her shoulders. The woman in the mirror looked composed, powerful, untouchable.
But inside, everything was screaming.
She gripped the edge of the marble counter, knuckles whitening.
Christian.
His voice, low, rough, pleading, still echoed in her ears.
“Melody—”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Why did it hurt so much?
She was supposed to be past this.
She had spent three years rebuilding, brick by brick, scar by scar, until she was no longer the woman who cried in the dark, who begged for scraps of time with her daughter, who signed away her rights under threat.
She was Melody Marshall now. CEO. Heiress. Survivor.
And yet one look at him, one word from him, and the past came rushing back like a tide she couldn’t outrun.
She opened her eyes.
Tears shimmered along her lashes.
She hated him.
She hated the way he had looked at her tonight... raw, broken, eyes full of regret and something softer, something that looked dangerously like the way he used to look at her before hate swallowed them both.
She hated that a part of her still recognized that look.
Still ached for it.
Still remembered how it felt when he smiled at her across a crowded room like she was the only person who existed.
Her breath hitched.
“I hate you,” she had told him. “I hate your face.”
And she had meant it.
But beneath the hate was something else... something she had tried to bury so deep it might never see light again.
Love.
Or the ghost of it.
The memory of a man who had once touched her like she was precious, before vengeance turned every gentle hand into a weapon.
She pressed her palm flat to the cool mirror, forehead resting against the glass.
“Why can’t I just let you go?” she whispered to her reflection. Her other hand moved up to her chest, resting flat on her heart. “Why do you still live here?”
Tears slipped free, tracing paths down her cheeks and dripping onto the marble.
She thought of Symphony.
Of the way Symphony would be growing, walking, talking, laughing, without ever knowing her mother’s voice, her arms, her love.
And she thought of Christian.
Of the man who had taken her child.
Of the man who had believed the worst of her.
Of the man who had just stood in front of a crowd and defended her name.
Her fingers curled against the mirror.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to cry.
She wanted to march back out there, grab him by the collar, and demand answers... demand to know why he had come tonight, why he had spoken for her.
But most of all, she wanted her daughter.
She wanted Symphony.
And that want was bigger than hate.
Bigger than love.
Bigger than anything Christian Holt could ever say or do.
She straightened slowly.
Wiped her tears with the edge of her palm.
Took a long, steadying breath.
Then she lifted her chin.
Looked herself in the eye.
And whispered... fierce, quiet, unbreakable:
“I’m not done yet.”
She turned away from the mirror.
Opened the door.
And stepped back into the hallway, head high, shoulders back, burgundy gown flowing behind her like armor.
×××××××
Christian stepped into the quiet foyer of the Holt mansion just after 11 p.m., the heavy front door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
The house was dim... only the low glow of hallway sconces and the faint shimmer of moonlight through tall windows.
He shrugged off his coat, draped it over the banister, and walked into the living room without turning on the overhead lights.
He sank onto the deep leather couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed, hands clasped loosely between them.
The rooftop reception still echoed in his mind.
Melody’s burgundy gown, the way she had moved through the crowd like she owned every inch of the night, the way she had looked at him with eyes that held no forgiveness and no fear.
Only distance.
He rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling slowly.
Then he heard it... small, barefoot footsteps padding down the hallway.
“Daddy!”
Symphony appeared in the doorway, rubbing one eye with her little fist. She wore her favorite pink pajamas dotted with cartoon flamingos, hair a wild tumble of dark curls around her face.
At three and a half, she was all long limbs and bright hazel eyes.
.. eyes so much like his, but the rest of her… the rest of her was pure Melody.
Christian looked up, frowning gently.
“Symphony, my princess,” he said, voice soft and tired. “Why are you up so late?”
She ran to him, bare feet slapping the rug, and threw herself into his waiting arms.
“I was waiting for you.”
He caught her easily, lifting her onto his lap and cuddling her against his chest. She smelled of baby shampoo and the faint sweetness of bedtime milk.
“Why?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“I can’t sleep without you.”
Christian smiled and kissed her forehead again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Daddy will put you to sleep.”
He stood with her in his arms. She wrapped her small legs around his waist, head resting against the side of his neck, tiny arms looped around his shoulders.
“Did you enjoy the party?” she asked sleepily, voice muffled against his shirt.
“Yes,” he lied gently. “I did.”
“Did they have macarons?”
“I didn’t stay for dinner.”
“Why?”
He hesitated, then kissed her temple.
“I wanted to come home soon,” he said. “I missed you.”
Symphony giggled softly, the sound vibrating against his skin.
“I missed you too, Daddy.”
He carried her up the stairs to her room, pink walls, starry ceiling projector, the big girl bed where her crib had once stood. He lowered her gently onto the mattress, pulled the duvet up to her chin, and sat on the edge.
“Sleep now, Symphony.”
She reached for him, small hand clutching his shirt.
“Daddy… can I sleep in your room?”
Christian paused, then nodded.
“Alright.”
He lifted her again, carrying her down the hall to his own bedroom. He lowered her onto the king-sized bed, slid in beside her, and pulled the duvet over them both.
Symphony curled immediately against his side, head on his chest, tiny hand fisted in his shirt.
“Goodnight, Daddy.”
“Goodnight, love.”
A while later, when her breathing had evened into the slow rhythm of sleep, she stirred once more.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
Christian’s heart swelled... painfully and beautifully.
“I love you too,” he whispered, voice thick. “More than anything.”
Symphony smiled in the dark, eyes already drifting closed again.
And then she was asleep.
Christian lay awake, staring at the ceiling, one arm wrapped protectively around his daughter.
He kissed the top of her head once more.
And in the quiet, with Symphony’s small heartbeat steady against his chest, he let himself feel it all... the guilt, the longing, the hope, the fear.
Tomorrow was another day.
Tomorrow he would keep trying.
Because this little girl in his arms deserved her mother.
And Melody deserved to know she had never been forgotten.
×××××××