Chapter 13
After The Glitter Settles
Coleman
Ishould’ve kept my damn mouth shut.
I don’t say things like that. I don’t open doors that can’t be shut again. I’m not some lonely widower with a sob story—I’m a man who made a mistake, married the wrong person, and is still cleaning up the mess.
But I said it anyway.
I feel less lonely when you’re here.
What the hell was I thinking?
I’ve known her a week. Seven days of waffles and glitter and pink nail polish, and now I’m telling the nanny—my employee—that her presence eases the hollow in my chest?
Brilliant.
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. I saw it all in her eyes. The same soft surprise I’ve been seeing more and more. The kind that’s dangerous. The kind that makes a man think about things he shouldn’t be thinking about.
Things like how small she is in my kitchen, or how she smells like vanilla and cinnamon, or how the girls have started laughing like they used to when they were little.
I run a hand over my face, jaw tight as I check the time on my phone.
Time to move. Time to shift gears.
I call up the stairs. “Girls, breakfast.”
The usual thundering response doesn’t come. Just footsteps, slow and heavy, like they’re dragging weights behind them. And maybe they are.
They know what today is.
When they appear in the kitchen, they both look older than they should—Paige with her brave little face, Payton with her guarded eyes. The weight they carry is too much for ten-year-old shoulders, and I hate Stella all over again for giving them reasons to walk like this.
They eat quietly, but it’s the kind of quiet that says everything.
I wait until they’re done, until their plates are pushed aside, and then I say it.
“Go grab your bags, Kiddos. I’ll drive you to Lacey’s.” The only fucking place in this town I can even stomach to see that woman at. And it’s only because I really like Lacey and don’t want to show my ass as her studio.
The shift is immediate.
Like I cracked the earth beneath their feet.
Paige’s lips tremble. Payton’s fingers curl into fists. They don’t argue. They just get up and disappear without a word.
I rub at the back of my neck and turn toward the stairs, half-expecting Remi to be waiting like she always is when it matters.
She is.
She stands by the base of the stairs, eyes soft, expression unreadable.
The girls return a minute later with their backpacks slung over their shoulders and that look on their faces—the one I’ve come to know too well. Braced for disappointment.
They stop in front of Remi.
And something shifts.
Paige throws her arms around Remi’s waist and holds on tight. Not a kid-hug. Not a quick squeeze. A real hug. Like she’s saying goodbye to someone who matters.
And Remi… her eyes flutter closed. Just for a second.
Like she’s memorizing the moment.
Like it hurts to let go.
Payton lingers a few feet away, eyes flicking between the door and Remi. She doesn’t hug her. Doesn’t even step closer. Just says, barely above a whisper, “Are you gonna be here when we get back?”
And I stop breathing. Because I need to hear her answer just as much as Payton does.
Remi bends down, tucks a strand of Payton’s hair behind her ear.
“I’ll be here,” she promises. Voice soft. Steady. But I see the mist in her eyes. “Sunday night. Okay?”
Payton gives the smallest nod.
Then Remi straightens up fast. Too fast.
“I forgot my purse,” she says, already turning. “I’ll see you girls Sunday.”
No goodbye to me.
Not even a glance.
Just the sound of her feet retreating up the stairs like she can’t get away fast enough.
And damn it—
That hurts more than it should.
The girls are quiet the entire drive.
Paige stares out the window, her hand in Payton's the whole ride like she’s afraid she will let go.
Payton sits stiff in the seat, arms crossed, jaw locked, eyes forward—so damn grown-up in the way she guards her heart, like she’s already learned not to expect softness where there’s only sharp edges.
I park outside the studio—Lacey’s place. Neutral ground. The only place Stella and I can manage to make the exchange without me blowing a gasket.
It’s already busy. Moms pulling in. Kids piling out in glitter sneakers and dance bags. I see Stella before the girls do.
Of course she’s dressed like she belongs in a magazine shoot. Too-tight pants, too-high heels, and that perfect fake smile she only pulls out when someone’s watching.
She’s laughing with two other moms as they walk toward the door.
The moment she spots us, she straightens and waves like we’re just another happy co-parenting team dropping off the kids for ballet.
“Girls!” she calls sweetly, like she didn’t just gut them last weekend. Like she didn’t tell them to stop calling her Mom.
My hand tightens on the wheel.
The girls don’t move.
They don’t smile.
They just… freeze.
“I’ll walk you up,” I say gently, and open the door.
Paige is the first out. Her backpack nearly slips off her shoulder. I fix it. She doesn’t look at me.
Payton comes next, silent and bracing like she’s about to walk into war.
I kneel in front of Paige first. “You gonna be okay, Button?”
Her lip wobbles, and she throws her arms around my neck like she can hold onto me long enough to make time stop.
Then she whispers it.
“Please don’t make us go.”
My throat burns.
I close my eyes and hold her tighter than I should. “I know, baby. I know.”
She clings harder, like maybe if she says it again, I’ll change my mind.
But I can’t.
And it fucking kills me.
I pull back slowly, kiss her temple. “Just a couple days, okay? You come home Sunday. Remi will be there. I’ll be there. Your bed. Your books. Your music.”
Tears spill over her cheeks, and it wrecks me.
Payton steps forward and gently pulls Paige away from me.
Doesn’t say a word.
Just takes her sister’s hand, laces their fingers, and leads her toward Stella like she’s the one doing the protecting now.
I stand.
Turn toward the woman who did this to them.
“Don’t,” she starts, too sweet, too fake.
I cut her off, voice low and sharp. “Don’t play for the audience, Stella. I know what you told them.”
Her smile drops. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t call me Mom in public,” I grit. “That’s what you said, right? You don’t get to smile and wave and play doting parent now. Not after that.”
Her eyes flick to the two moms still hovering behind her, watching, listening.
She adjusts her purse strap like it’s a crown and rolls her eyes. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“No. We won’t.”
Because there’s nothing left to say to a woman who gave up the right to be called Mom and then got offended when the kids listened.
The girls climb into her car without a word.
Paige looks back once. Just once.
And then they’re gone.
I stand in the parking lot longer than I should, hands clenched at my sides, the ghost of Paige’s voice still echoing in my head.
Please don’t make us go.
God, if I could change the rules of this world, I would.
But for now… I go home.
And wait for Sunday.
The house is too damn quiet.
And I thought that’s what I wanted.
For a week now, I’ve been counting down the hours until I could breathe again. Until the glitter stopped showing up in my laundry. Until I could have my kitchen back. Until the noise and the questions and the eyes watching me like I might leave too finally paused.
But now, standing in the front hallway with the silence wrapping around me like a straitjacket…
I feel hollow.
I drop my keys in the dish. Kick off my shoes. Walk into the kitchen out of habit.
The house should feel normal again.
But it doesn’t.
There’s something on the counter. A small plastic container with a lid, the kind you’d pack leftovers in. Inside—cookies. The chocolate chip kind she made for the girls. The kind Paige had asked for seconds of. The kind Payton pretended not to like but ate three of anyway.
On top, a folded note in her loopy handwriting.
“In case the quiet is too much.”
– Remi
I sit down hard on the stool, the container cradled in my hands like it might explain why I feel like the whole damn house has shifted off its foundation.
Because she gets it.
She’s been here a week.
A week.
And she knew the silence would hurt.
She knew me.
And she’s not even here.
I pull out my phone and stare at her contact.
I don’t text her.
I can’t.
Because if I do, I might say too much. I might admit that her note is the only thing anchoring me right now. That this house is suddenly too cold, too clean, too sharp without her.
Instead, I open another thread.
One labeled Kings.
Langston. Harley. Nathan. Dean. Me.
Five guys who met in college and made a pact over cheap whiskey and billionaire dreams.
I type three words:
Me:
Need a drink.
Langston:
Say when.
Harley:
On my way.
Nathan:
We got you. Always.
I stare at the phone for a beat longer, then stand.
Before I can even lock the screen, another message pops through.
Dean:
We’re in training camp, but screw it—I’ll sneak out. You need us, I’m there.
Because that’s the thing about the Kings of Lakeshore—
It doesn’t matter if you're building an empire, coaching a pro team, or stuck halfway across the state.
When one of us needs something?
We all show up.
No questions. No delay.
And today, I need my brothers.