Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Olivia
When I got back to the apartment, Leo was sitting on the carpet with his blocks. Ella was next to him with a cup of tea, the TV on low—just background noise you didn't need to watch.
"Mommy!" Leo looked up, holding a red block. "Look what I built!"
I walked over. It was a crooked tower, wide at the bottom, narrowing as it went up, with two thin blocks sticking out at the top like antennas.
"Very impressive," I said. "What is it?"
"The Eiffel Tower!" he announced proudly. "We saw it when we were in France!"
Ella laughed quietly.
I sat down on the couch and set my teaching bag by my feet. Leo kept building, muttering to himself about some new idea for his tower. I watched the top of his golden head, watched how intently his fingers gripped the blocks. Something in my chest kept aching.
"What's wrong?" Ella's voice dropped so only I could hear.
"Nothing."
She looked at me but didn't push. Not with Leo around. That was her rule.
Leo kept at it for maybe twenty more minutes. The tower fell twice, and he rebuilt it twice. When it fell the third time, he yawned and rubbed his eyes.
"Bath time," I said. "You can build more tomorrow."
"Mommy, help me finish first—"
"Tomorrow." I picked him up. "Tomorrow, I will help you build an even bigger one."
He wasn't thrilled, but the sleepiness was winning. He didn't fight much. I gave him a bath, got him into pajamas, and put him in bed. He hugged his stuffed giraffe, eyes already drooping.
"Mommy," he mumbled, "what are we doing tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, I have work. You'll be with Aunt Ella."
He was quiet for a moment. I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then he spoke again. "Mommy, will we go back to France?"
My hand stilled.
"Why? Do you want to go back?"
"I don't know," he said. "I liked France. I like it here too."
He was born and grew up in France. He knew every street in that little town, knew the neighbor's cat would show up at the same time every day, waiting for his milk-soaked cat food. But New York had Ella, had Sophie, had something he couldn't name but could feel.
"Sleep," I said, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Wherever we are, Mommy's here."
He hummed and rolled over, tucking the giraffe against him. His breathing slowed.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a while, watching him.
When he slept, his mouth hung slightly open, lashes casting a small shadow on his cheek, fingers still gripping the giraffe's ear.
He looked like him—not vaguely, but directly, specifically, the kind of resemblance that made me freeze every time I saw it.
The curve of his brow bone, the line of his jaw, even the slight furrow between his brows when he slept—identical.
I stood up, walked out, and closed the door softly behind me.
Ella had already put away the blocks, turned off the TV, and left just one floor lamp on. She was curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, holding a fresh cup of tea.
"Come sit," she said. "You look like someone punched you."
I sat down, leaned against the back of the couch, and closed my eyes.
"How's the new job?" Ella asked.
"Good. The family's nice. Pay's generous, even better than you said."
"Then why the face?"
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. The lampshade was off-white with a ring of fine dust around the edge. Hadn't been cleaned in days.
"The little girl," I said. "Her name is Juliet."
Ella's teacup paused mid-air.
"Six years old. Blonde hair. Green eyes." My voice was quiet, like I was talking to myself. "She looks exactly like I did when I was little."
The living room went silent. Outside, a car passed, tires rolling over wet pavement with a soft, steady sound.
"Ella," I said, "my daughter would be that age now."
She didn't say anything.
"The way she..." My voice caught. "The way she leaned into me. Like she knew me."
"Olivia."
"I know," I cut her off. "I know how this sounds. New York's huge. There are countless girls named Juliet. She just happens to look like me, happens to be six, happens to—" I stopped. Didn't finish with "happens to be named Juliet."
Ella set down her tea and turned to face me.
"You think that's your child?"
I didn't answer.
"You've seen her?"
"I'm teaching her to dance." I closed my eyes. "She calls me teacher."
Ella was quiet for a long time. Long enough that I thought she wouldn't speak.
"Have you met the family?" she asked.
"No." I opened my eyes. "The nanny said 'sir' arranged it, but I haven't met him."
"So you—"
"I know," I said. "I don't know anything. Maybe it really is just a coincidence. But the way that child looked at me—" I stopped, took a deep breath. "She didn't look at me like I was a stranger."
Ella reached out and touched my wrist. Not squeezing, just resting there.
"You want me to ask around?" she said.
I was quiet for a moment.
"Can you?"
She looked at me. The look held sympathy and something else—reluctance.
"Olivia," her voice dropped low, "you know how well that family protects their children. No information gets out. Even the paparazzi can't get a single photo. Whatever I find out won't be more than what you already know."
I nodded.
"But—" She hesitated. "If you really want to know, I can try. Just don't get your hopes up."
I leaned into her shoulder, closed my eyes, said nothing.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. That off-white lampshade became a blurry gray mass in the dark. Leo was in the next room, occasionally turning over, the mattress making soft sounds.
I thought of her—Juliet. How she stood in the doorway of the studio. How she looked up at me. How she felt when she leaned into me, that soft little weight.
I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head.
Maybe it really was just a coincidence.
But those green eyes, that face identical to mine at five years old, the way she leaned into me—all these coincidences piled together until I could barely breathe under their weight.
I woke up early the next day.
Almost an hour before my alarm. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, running through what I needed to do today. Teach. Observe. Stay calm. Don't let any emotion leak out where it shouldn't.
I was there to teach ballet.
That was all.
When I arrived at the house, Ms. Carmen answered the door. Same as yesterday—polite, proper, leading me upstairs.
I followed her down the hallway, past the half-open study door, past the tapestry I couldn't identify but knew was expensive.
This time, I didn't look at those things.
I looked at something else—at the end of the hall, a row of photos on the wall.
All of Juliet. One year old, two years old, three years old, smiling in every one.
No family portraits. No photos of a father.
I looked away and headed upstairs.
Juliet was already in the studio. She wore a pale blue ballet dress today, hair in a bun tied with a matching ribbon. When she saw me, she jumped off her chair and ran over to grab my hand.
"Vivi! You're here!"
"I'm here." I crouched down to her level. "What do you want to learn today?"
"I want to learn how to spin! Like in Swan Lake!"
"All right, we'll learn spins today."
The lesson went for about forty minutes. During the break, Juliet sat on the barre ledge, legs swinging, hugging her stuffed bunny. Then she spoke up.
"Vivi, do you have kids?"
I froze. "Why do you ask?"
"Because when you hold me, you hold me really well," she said. "Like how mommies hold their kids."
My fingers tightened.
"I've never met my mommy," Juliet continued, her tone matter-of-fact, like she'd accepted this long ago. "Carmen says she left a long time ago."
"Juliet..."
"It's okay," she said, looking down and fidgeting with the bunny's ear. "I have Daddy. Daddy's very good to me."
I took a deep breath and pushed down the sourness rising in my throat.
"But there's this lady who comes to our house a lot. I don't like her."
"Why not?"
"She's mean to the staff. And she won't let me have snacks. Once I snuck some chocolate and she locked me in my room. Wouldn't let me out." Her voice got smaller. "Daddy doesn't know. I didn't want to tell him. He's too busy."
My fingers dug into my skirt.
"Does this lady... is she mean to you?"
Juliet nodded. "She talks really loud. I don't like her. But Daddy keeps letting her come over." She paused. "Last month she came and said a lot of things to me."
"What did she say?"
Juliet was quiet for a while, fingers twisting the bunny's ear.
"She said Mommy didn't want me," her voice went small. "That I'm a kid nobody wants... unless I call her Mommy. Otherwise, she'll make Daddy not want me either..."
I knelt there, knees going weak. My heart felt like someone had grabbed it and was squeezing.
Poor child. Instinctively, I pulled her into my arms, gently stroking her back.
"My Juliet, you're a good girl. Daddy won't stop wanting you.
I'm sure your mommy loves you, too. She must have her reasons.
You're the sweetest child. Everyone will love you. "
"Thank you, Miss Vivi. You're so nice. I don't like that lady," Juliet sniffled, eyes red, rubbing her little head against me. "When she talks, she smells really strong and bad. Not like you, Vivi. You smell nice."
"Juliet," my voice came out hoarse, "did you tell your dad what she said to you?"
She shook her head. "Daddy's busy. I don't want to worry him."
I reached out and pulled her into my arms. She leaned in, rested her head on my shoulder, the stuffed bunny squished between us, its ear dangling and swaying.
"You should tell him," I said. "He'd want to know."
She didn't speak, just buried her face in the crook of my shoulder and made a muffled sound of agreement.
I held her. That sore spot in my chest turned into pain. Not sharp pain—low, lingering pain, like a thorn stuck in and never pulled out, just left there.
If Juliet was my daughter—
No. I couldn't think like that. I didn't know anything yet. I couldn't put baseless hope on this child.
I let her go, stood up, pretended to organize my teaching bag, shoved that Giselle postcard to the very bottom, and zipped it closed.
"All right, Juliet, my brave girl. That's it for today."
"Vivi," Juliet looked up at me, "will you come back tomorrow?"
"Yes," I said. "Same time."
She smiled, showing the little gap between her front teeth.
After the lesson ended, I didn't leave right away.
"Carmen," I said, "could I use the restroom?"
"Of course. End of the hall, turn left."
I walked in the direction she pointed. The restroom was at the end of the hall, door closed. I pushed—it wouldn't budge. Tried the handle—locked.
I stepped back, about to leave. Then I turned and bumped into someone.
A tray brushed past my arm. Juice spilled out, cold liquid running down my sleeve, spreading across my white shirt in a large orange stain.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" The young maid apologized frantically. "Miss Adrian, I didn't mean to! I didn't think you'd be—"
"It's fine," I said. "My fault. I shouldn't have been standing there."
The juice had soaked through half my sleeve, sticky against my skin.
Uncomfortable. The maid looked ready to cry, said she'd get a towel.
I told her not to worry and asked where the nearest restroom was.
She pointed to another door at the end of the hall, said the guest room bathroom was available, and she'd find me a clean shirt.
I walked into that guest room, closed the door, turned on the faucet, pulled off my shirt, and used a wet towel to wipe the juice off my arms. The orange liquid diluted in the white sink, swirling down the drain.
The water covered up sounds from outside. I focused on cleaning the shirt, standing at the sink, trying to steady my breathing.
Then my eyes fell on the countertop.
A few items sat there, casually placed, like the owner had used them last night or this morning and set them down without thinking. A pair of cufflinks—silver, square, with a thin beveled edge. A bottle of cologne in dark glass, no fancy decoration, a metal cap, simple and solid.
My hand stopped in the water.
Those cufflinks.
That style, those proportions, that beveled edge—I'd seen them on someone's shirt cuff. More than once. Enough times that five years later, in a bathroom that had nothing to do with him, I recognized them instantly.
I pulled my hand from the water and stood there, staring at those cufflinks.
Not necessarily, I told myself. This style wasn't one-of-a-kind. There must be duplicates on the market. So many places made custom cufflinks. Matching pairs happened all the time.
Resentment, fear, and something else surged toward me, scrambling my brain.
No. Impossible.
It had to be a coincidence. Yes, just a coincidence.
If he knew everything, I wouldn't be standing here safe and sound. He wouldn't let me anywhere near Juliet...
At that thought, my hand froze.
If this was real, then...
Juliet... she really was my Juliet.
She was my child.
I took a deep breath, shook my head, told myself to stop overthinking. Things couldn't be this coincidental. The priority was to clean the shirt, put this aside, and get out of here fast—
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
I bent back over the shirt, scrubbing. My heart raced a little, but my voice came out steady. "Just leave it by the door. Thank you."
No response.
The footsteps didn't stop or fade. They got closer. Then the bathroom door I hadn't fully closed was pushed open.
I turned around.
And collided with a solid chest.
That scent.
The scent I'd recognize anywhere—deep, warm, carrying that quality I'd spent five years trying to erase from memory and failed—flooded in from all directions in this moment, drowning every defense I had.
I looked up.
A pair of green eyes.
Deeper than five years ago, holding things I couldn't read. Shock, anger, and something more complex buried underneath, like a pot boiling with the lid on, steam roiling under the metal but not yet finding an exit.
"You came back, Olivia."
My brain completely shut down in that second.