Chapter 23 Kairo
KAIRO
The Holonet café is all chrome curves and synth-glass chandeliers, the kind of place where the pastries cost more than my electric bill and everyone looks like they have a publicist on speed dial.
It’s the type of spot Roan loves—loud enough to drown out awkward conversations, quiet enough to pretend like you’re not having one.
I sit across from him in a booth that smells faintly of ozone and sugar dust, nursing a stim-coffee that tastes like liquified regret. Roan’s already half a mimosa in and swirling his compad like it’s a weapon.
“You’re killing me, Kai,” he says without looking up.
I blink at him. “Good morning to you, too.”
“You’re a week behind your delivery schedule. That’s not ‘creative burnout.’ That’s ‘contract breach’ with a sprinkle of ‘career sabotage.’”
I sip my drink. It scalds my tongue. I don’t flinch.
Roan sighs like I’m personally kicking his dog. “Don’t make me be the bad guy here.”
“I’m not,” I say, voice flat. “You’re doing a great job all on your own.”
That earns me a glance. He looks tired, which is rare for Roan. Usually, he has that polished, plastene energy that makes him seem half-robot, half-enthusiasm. But today, his eyes are bloodshot, and his blazer’s wrinkled at the collar.
“I’m trying to help you, Kai,” he says, leaning in now. “This thing—this whole ‘Jav Kuraken teaches kindergarten’ story? It’s gold. Literal marketing gold. Your books are soft-launching into a dip, and this is the kind of publicity arc authors sell kidneys for.”
“No.”
“Just think about it—”
“No.”
Roan throws his hands up. “It’s not even a tell-all! It’s a reframing. A creative reflection of—”
“I said no,” I cut in, sharper now. “You want me to turn my life into a circus act? Write a memoir where I just out my son’s real father to the entire quadrant so some bored exec can slap a holo-drama pitch on it?”
Roan recoils, but not with surprise. With guilt. He’s already floated the idea, I realize. Probably to someone with way too much power and way too little taste.
“I wouldn’t use Ben’s name,” he says, weakly.
“You wouldn’t have to. Jav’s face is everywhere now. And people already whisper.”
He frowns. “People love a redemption arc.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow. “Then maybe you should date him.”
His smile fades. “You’re scared.”
“Damn right I am.”
“You’re also lying to yourself.”
I meet his gaze. “And?”
“And you’re burning down everything you built just to keep pretending you’re fine.”
I stand before he can say anything else. The chair scrapes back too loud. Half the café looks over. I don’t care.
“Tell the publisher I’ll get them a draft. Fiction. No memoirs. No exposés. Just a damn story.”
Roan’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Make it a good one, Kai. Or they’ll make it for you.”
I leave the café with my stomach twisted and my throat raw from biting back all the things I wanted to scream.
The door to my apartment hisses open and I know something’s wrong before I’ve even crossed the threshold.
Laughter. Shrill. Unfiltered. High-pitched chaos.
I drop my bag and round the corner into the living room—and stop cold.
Ben’s got three of his school friends over, and the place looks like a miniature mob hideout.
One kid’s counting “credits” using my grocery ration cards. Another’s wearing my old sunglasses, barking fake orders like some cartoon lieutenant. And Ben—my sweet, bright Ben—is standing on the coffee table with his arms crossed, a paper badge taped to his chest that says BOSS.
He’s doing a voice. A low, slow drawl that sounds exactly like Jav.
“Listen up, crew,” he says, pointing a crayon like it’s a stun baton. “If anyone touches the goldfish stash without clearance, they lose a thumb.”
The kids cackle.
I can’t move.
Ben sees me and freezes. The room goes quiet in that guilty way only kids can manage.
“Hi, Mom,” he says sheepishly.
“What,” I say, and my voice is too soft, too calm, “are you playing?”
Ben steps off the table. “We were pretending. Like Mr. K’s classroom stories. He taught us about... negotiation.”
“And extortion,” one kid pipes up proudly. “We got stickers if we ran a good racket.”
“Out,” I say. “Now.”
The kids glance at each other. One starts to protest, but I don’t raise my voice—I just look at them. And whatever they see makes them grab their shoes and scramble for the door.
Ben lingers.
“Mom…”
“Go to your room.”
“But—”
“Now, Ben.”
He flinches like I hit him, and guilt claws its way up my spine even before he vanishes down the hallway.
I stand in the silence for a long time, just staring at the living room. At the crumbs. The crayons. The taped-together mob empire of a child who doesn’t know how close to the truth he’s dancing.
And then I call him.
He shows up fast. Too fast.
Like he was waiting.
I barely open the door before he’s stepping inside, all muscle and nervous energy wrapped in a long gray coat. His eyes flick over my face, searching.
“What happened?”
I don’t answer.
I walk past him, into the living room, and gesture.
“Does this look like a normal kindergarten to you?”
He frowns at the mess. “They’re kids.”
“They were pretending to be you.”
Jav’s eyes meet mine. “Ben?”
“On the table. Calling himself ‘Boss.’”
He runs a hand down his face. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
We stand there for a beat. The weight of it all pressing down. The silence between us louder than anything the kids screamed earlier.
“I can’t do this,” I say finally.
“Kai—”
“No. You don’t get to waltz in here and rewrite what parenting means because you’re finally ready to care.”
His voice is tight. “I’ve been ready.”
“Too little, too late.”
He takes a step closer. “Don’t do this.”
“You’re done teaching,” I say, pointing at him like it’s a sentence. “You’re out of that classroom. I don’t care how good you are at it. I don’t care how much the kids love you. You’re done.”
He stares at me, chest rising and falling with a quiet kind of fury.
“For the record,” he says, voice like gravel, “I never taught him to call himself Boss.”
I shake my head, arms crossed so tight they ache.
“I’m serious, Kairo.”
“So am I.”
He’s quiet for a beat.
Then: “Give me one night.”
I blink. “What?”
“One night,” he says again. “To explain. To show you what I’m trying to build. One night. No pressure. No decisions. Just… listen.”
I should say no.
I want to say no.
But I’m tired. And scared. And a tiny part of me—stupid, traitorous—wants to hear what he has to say.
I exhale.
“One night.”
His shoulders ease.
“Don’t make me regret it,” I say.
He gives me a look I can’t quite name.
“I already regret everything else.”