20.0
Amira came down the stairs still smoothing the front of her sweater, her hair pulled back in a loose knot. The house had gone hushed again after the chaos of crayons and cartoons—only the faint hum of the refrigerator between us.
"She's out," she said, voice low.
"Yeah?"
Amira nodded, settling onto the couch across from me. "Took a little convincing, but she's asleep."
I watched her a moment, the way she sank into the cushions like she hadn't taken a real breath all day. The sunlight caught a few stray curls around her face.
"Thanks for letting me stay awhile," I said.
She looked up. "You don't have to thank me for that."
"I do," I said quietly. "After the way I showed up the other night..."
Her eyes flicked toward me but didn't stay long.
"I was out of line," I went on. "I let the shock run the show. I'm sorry."
The word hung there. She rubbed a thumb along the seam of her jeans. "I know you were angry. I probably would've been too."
"That doesn't excuse it."
Her gaze softened but only slightly. "You were blindsided and so was I. None of this has a right way to handle it."
I nodded. "Still, I want to start doing it the right way now."
That earned the smallest curve of a smile, fleeting but real.
For a moment we just sat there, quiet, the space between us charged with the kind of tension that comes from history.
Heaven help me, part of me still noticed how her voice softened at the end of sentences, how she twisted her ring when she was nervous.
"I meant what I said earlier," I told her. "I don't want to keep re-litigating the past. I just want to make up for the time I lost."
She studied me. "Brooks, it was never about me thinking you wouldn't be good at it. It was about... everything else. We'd fallen apart, and then you got married. It was a lot going on."
I breathed out slowly. "You made the only call you thought you could."
Her shoulders eased. "I did."
We sat in that honesty for a beat. Then I said, "So where do we go from here?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "You can come by once a week for now. Let her get used to you. I'll keep it consistent so she doesn't feel thrown off."
"That sounds good," I said. "More than good."
She nodded, then hesitated before asking, "What about your parents? And Margot?"
Just hearing the name made something tighten in my chest. And I saw it—the flash of worry cross her face like she'd wished she could swallow the question back.
"I'll handle it," I said.
"Brooks—"
I shook my head, gentle but sure. "You don't have to carry that part anymore."
She exhaled, the kind that came from months of holding everything alone. "That's not easy for me."
"I know," I said. "But I'll deal with it."
For a moment I didn't think; I just reached across and brushed my fingers against hers where they rested on the arm of the couch. She didn't pull away.
"Amira, Amira, Amira." I stood, slipping my hands into my pockets. "I don't know what we were heading toward these last few weeks," I said, meeting her eyes. "But maybe we should keep it simple. Platonic. Just focus on her."
Her chin lifted a little. "That's probably smart."
"Professional, then," I said.
Her mouth twitched. "Professional."
The word tasted wrong. I took a step back, ready to leave, but something in me wouldn't let me go yet.
"Also."
She looked up.
"I know things haven't been easy between us," I said quietly. "And I know I gave you every reason to think I wouldn't handle this right. Maybe I haven't earned the chance to ask you for anything, but..."
I trailed off, searching for words that didn't sound rehearsed.
"Not having you in my life these past four years— it doesn't matter what I was doing, who I was with, what city I was in— I thought about you. Every day. Sometimes I'd see something and it'd hit me so hard I'd have to stop what I was doing and just... breathe."
Her eyes softened, just barely, but she didn't speak.
"I say all that to say this." My voice steadied.
"You don't have to trust me all at once. But trust me this once. Let me prove you wrong. Let me show you I can be the man you needed back then— the man she needs now. I'll protect you both, no matter what comes. The media, my parents, Bryan— I don't care. I'll handle it. You just focus on her."
Something flickered behind her expression—shock first, then something quieter, like the memory of a person she used to believe in.
"Brooks..." she started slowly, careful. "I don't want you to say anything to them yet."
That caught me off guard. "What?"
"You've only just met her," she said, voice soft but steady. "Let's just... see how it goes first."
It took me a second to process it. "See how it goes?" I echoed. "She's my daughter, Amira. There's nothing to see."
"I know," she said quickly, hands twisting together. "I just—this is new for all of us. Let's make sure this is something you really want before you go turning your world upside down."
A short, bitter laugh escaped before I could stop it. "You think I'm going to disappear?"
She met my eyes. "I think I'm protecting her."
"From me?" My voice came out lower than I intended. There was a flash of something—hurt, maybe, or disbelief—that burned in my chest. "You really think I'd walk away from her?"
Her silence was answer enough.
I shook my head slowly, forcing the words through the tightness in my throat. "I don't plan on going anywhere, Amira. Is that not obvious?"
The room felt smaller suddenly, like the air had thickened around us. She looked like she wanted to take it back, to say something else, but nothing came.
For a second, I thought about touching her again—her arm, her cheek, anything—but I didn't. I couldn't.
Instead, I lingered in the doorway, watching her watch me.
"Brooks," she whispered.
I turned. "I'll see you next week Amira."
She didn't say anything else.
So I gave a small nod—more promise than goodbye—and stepped out into the chill, leaving the scent of her house and the weight of her doubt hanging between us.
I slid into the driver's seat and sat there, engine off, fingers gripping the steering wheel until the leather warmed beneath them. Her porch light was still on, faint through the windshield, catching against the frost on the edges of the glass.
For a second, I thought about starting the car.
For another, I thought about going back.
Instead, I just sat there.
The silence pressed in, thick enough to hear the blood in my ears. I could still smell her house on my clothes—vanilla, faint lemon cleaner, something sweet I couldn't name. It clung to me, too familiar to ignore.
"Let's just see how it goes."
Her words wouldn't stop replaying.
Like she didn't believe I'd stay. Like she was already preparing for the day I wouldn't.
I leaned back, eyes burning. I wasn't angry anymore—just gutted. She had every right not to trust me, but it didn't make it easier to hear.
She didn't see it—the way Alina looked at me, curious, unguarded. The way I'd already memorized her laugh, her voice, the tiny dimple that appeared when she smiled too wide.
That little girl was mine.
And I was supposed to "see how it goes"?
I started the car just to feel something other than the silence. The headlights washed over the driveway, pale and ghostly.
Through the rearview, I caught one last glimpse of the porch light. Still on.
She was probably upstairs by now. Maybe looking out the window.
Maybe not.
By the time I got back to the penthouse, the lights were on.
Not the quiet kind. Every lamp, every pendant, every recessed bulb humming bright enough to make the marble gleam. I could hear laughter before I even reached the living room.
Not Margot's usual laugh — higher, practiced — but my mother's.
I loosened my collar as I rounded the corner.
They were all there.
Margot in a cream sweater dress, setting down plates. My mother perched on one of the stools, posture sharp as if she were conducting a board meeting. My father leaned against the counter beside her, his phone facedown, wine swirling in hand.
"Finally," Margot said brightly. "We were beginning to think you forgot. Your mother insisted we start the appetizers without you."
I blinked, trying to recalibrate. "What is this?"
"Dinner," my father said simply, as if that should've been obvious. "Margot said you had no plans tonight, and we hadn't seen the place since the redesign."
Margot smiled, all sugar. "You've been so busy with the campaign, I thought it'd be nice to have everyone in one place again."
I glanced between them — the wine glasses, the plated shrimp cocktail, the faint music coming from the built-in speakers. The whole thing felt staged.
"I didn't realize we'd moved to surprise dinners," I said.
My mother poured herself more Sauvignon Blanc, eyes flicking over me like she was inspecting for flaws. "You look tired, darling. Working too hard?"
"Something like that," I muttered, slipping my hands into my pockets.
She tutted. "You used to carry yourself better under pressure. Remember what your father always said?"
My father smirked, as if on cue. "Control the narrative before it controls you."
Margot laughed softly. "You see? He never stops campaigning."
The three of them shared an easy rhythm — polished, familiar, suffocating. I'd grown up in rooms like this, where words were weapons disguised as wisdom.
Margot brushed past me to pour wine into a fourth glass. "Come sit, Brooks. You'll make them think we're fighting."
"We're not?" I asked under my breath.
She shot me a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Not in public."
I sat anyway. The table was set for four. Linen napkins folded like envelopes, candles flickering too bright.
Dinner began with chatter about the campaign — fundraising events, press, Bryan's polling numbers. My father had opinions on every one. My mother nodded where appropriate.
I tried to listen. I tried to care.
But all I could think about was the drawing still folded in my jacket pocket.