Chapter 15
RHEA
Itry to work.
Really, I do.
I suit up every morning, clip the NovaCast badge to my belt, and march into the soundstages like I’ve got a full night’s sleep and no personal trauma lurking in the shadows of the arena.
But I’m lying to myself.
The camera’s red light blinks at me, waiting for my cue, and I stare through it like I’m watching a solar flare from across the stars.
My voice still works. I say the right words. Ask the right questions. Smile just enough to pass for charming but not enough to invite curiosity.
But inside?
Inside I’m wreckage.
Because he’s here.
I see him everywhere. In flashes. In corners. His shadow slipping past a hallway bulkhead. His footsteps echoing down the metal stairwell after a session.
Every time I round a corner, my gut flips.
Every distant grunt from the training floors sounds like his voice. Every victory scream from the arena below tastes like blood in my mouth.
And worse—he’s not hiding.
He doesn’t avoid me.
He gives me space, sure. But he makes sure I see him.
Working with trainers. Laughing with the other fighters—an edge to it, like he’s never really at ease. Towering in interviews, mysterious and magnetic and utterly in control.
Except when I walk into the room.
Then the mask slips.
Just for a second.
Then he’s Blastaar again.
Untouchable.
Unreachable.
But still mine.
Today, I’m filming a segment with an over-bulked steroid junkie who calls himself “Captain Killjoy” and smells like burnt protein powder and broken dreams.
He flexes every time the camera moves.
I ask him about his signature move, and he launches into a ten-minute monologue about physics, pain thresholds, and “branding synergy.”
I don’t hear a word.
Because behind the crew, across the training bay, Valtron walks through the door.
My chest knots.
He’s not looking at me.
Not yet.
But he feels me.
I know he does.
His steps slow. Shoulders tighten.
He peels his shirt off mid-stride like the heat’s nothing to him, muscles catching the overhead light like a damn storm.
Captain Killjoy keeps talking.
I’m not listening.
Because Valtron’s walking this way now.
Straight toward me.
“Cut,” I bark, voice sharp enough to break glass. “We’re done.”
The crew scrambles. Killjoy puffs up like a bruised peacock, then deflates when I ignore him and power down the mic.
I’m halfway through packing the gear when Valtron stops right in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
He doesn’t speak right away.
Neither do I.
Because up close, he’s worse.
More.
His scent hits me—leather, smoke, something metallic and clean underneath. Not sweat. Him.
And I hate that I still want to bury my face in his neck and forget everything else.
“You let me think you were dead.”
His voice is low, rough, not yelling—but it hits harder than a shout.
I turn slowly. “And you left first.”
His jaw tightens.
I grab a coil of audio wire and slam it into the case. “You walked into that shuttle knowing you might never come back. Knowing you were leaving me.”
“I was saving you!”
“Bullshit,” I snap. “You were running.”
He flinches.
Good.
Because so help me, I am done carrying this pain alone.
“You think disappearing makes you noble?” I hiss. “You think bleeding for some off-the-books mission and becoming a media god makes you righteous? You vanished, Valtron. I mourned you.”
“I searched,” he growls. “Every lead. Every whisper. And they told me you were gone. That there was no Rhea Hart left to find.”
“You gave up.”
He steps forward.
I step back.
And there it is again—that damn pull. The gravity of him. The part of me that still curves toward his orbit no matter how far I run.
“I never gave up,” he says, quieter now. “You were a ghost. And I became something people could see, hoping maybe you would.”
I laugh—bitter, broken. “Well congrats. It worked.”
We’re breathing hard now. The air between us is thick with years of unsaid things. With heartbreak and what-ifs and aching truths that still haven’t found a voice.
He looks at me.
Not with anger.
With devastation.
“You could’ve told me,” he says. “You could’ve reached out.”
I don’t say it.
Don’t tell him about Ripley.
Because if I do, this fragile standoff explodes into something we can’t take back.
“I didn’t know where to start,” I whisper.
He steps back.
Nods.
Pain flickers across his face like lightning behind clouds.
Then he turns.
Walks away.
No dramatic exit. No slamming doors.
Just silence.
And somehow, that silence is worse than any scream.
Because we’re both still in orbit.
But we haven’t crashed yet.
The night is thick with silence.
The kind of silence that sits heavy on your chest and doesn't lift, no matter how many times you turn over or rearrange the damn pillows. I try breathing deep, counting the flickers of the holo-clock on the wall, letting the whir of the air filter lull me into something close to stillness.
It doesn’t work.
My mind’s a live wire, sparking in the dark. Every thought loops back to the way he looked at me. Not just angry. Hurt. Lost. Like I’d gutted him with three words.
I didn’t know where to start.
It’s a coward’s answer, and I hate myself for it. But it was also true. When someone breaks you that deep, when you spend years gluing the pieces back together into a shape that barely resembles the original—you don’t just start over.
You survive.
Then you hide.
And gods, I hid well.
But now he’s here. And I’m exposed. And everything I built is teetering on a wire I can’t seem to cut or climb.
A small sound jerks me upright.
The soft pad of bare feet on the floor.
A whisper: “Mama?”
I sit up fast. Ripley’s at the doorway, blanket in hand, thumb in her mouth—eyes wide and watery in the glow from the hallway striplight.
“Bad dream,” she says, voice small.
I don’t ask.
I just open the covers, and she climbs in, tangling herself around me like a vine reclaiming its favorite tree. Her skin’s warm. Her hair smells like the lavender soap she pretends to hate. I curl my arms around her, hand settling on the curve of her back.
She sighs.
A deep, contented thing.
And I stare at the ceiling.
I used to think love was fire. Sharp. Bright. All-consuming.
But this?
This is a slow burn.
A steady, endless heat I never expected to carry. The kind that doesn’t flare—but endures.
She shifts in her sleep, pressing her cheek against my collarbone, and I remember the first time I held her.
Tiny.
Squalling.
Perfect.
And mine.
The only thing in the entire galaxy that ever made me believe in second chances.
And now…
Now, I might have to explain to her who her father is.
A father she’s never met.
A father who walks through fire for applause and bleeds on command for crowds that cheer for blood, not justice.
A father who broke me.
And who might, by some impossible twist of fate, be close enough to do it again.