Chapter 14
brON
The hallway outside the rally arena still carries the lingering smell of burnt fuel and sun-baked dust, the scent clinging to the air like a memory that refuses to disperse, and I walk beside Tilda with the uneasy awareness that the real race happening right now is inside my own head.
The vehicle engines may have gone quiet and the crowd noise may have faded to a distant murmur echoing through the compound structure, but the image of that child refuses to loosen its grip on my thoughts.
Every time I blink I see those golden eyes again, the particular burnished shade that exists in exactly one species in the galaxy, and every time the image appears my mind begins the same relentless calculation that has been grinding behind my skull since the moment I stepped into the family commons.
Tilda moves beside me with deliberate calm, her posture straight and her expression neutral in the careful way someone carries themselves when they are trying very hard not to reveal what they are thinking, and that composure alone tells me more than any confession ever could.
I watch the tension in her shoulders and the tiny controlled rhythm of her breathing and realize with a dull, inevitable certainty that she already knows what I am about to ask.
The corridor opens into a quieter section of the compound where the cameras thin out and the overhead lighting softens from the harsh white glare of the competition wings into something closer to ordinary building illumination, and I slow my pace just enough that she has to notice the shift.
She stops walking two steps later, turning toward me.
For a moment we simply look at each other while the ambient hum of ventilation systems and distant voices fills the silence between us, and the longer that silence stretches the heavier the question becomes inside my chest. I fold my arms loosely, not because I am trying to look confrontational but because I suddenly feel like if I leave my hands free I might start gesturing in ways that betray how hard my pulse is pounding.
“So,” I say at last, letting the word settle into the quiet space between us while I search her face for any hint that she might offer the truth without being asked directly, and the way her jaw tightens by a fraction tells me immediately that she intends to do nothing of the sort.
She lifts one eyebrow in that cool, unimpressed way she has perfected over the years, the look she uses when she thinks someone is about to say something irritating and she would prefer to get through the exchange as quickly as possible.
“So,” she echoes in a voice that sounds deliberately casual, though I notice the careful precision of her tone in the same way I notice the subtle tension in the muscles along her neck.
“That kid,” I say quietly, watching her reaction more closely now because there are certain words that land differently when the person hearing them is trying very hard not to reveal what they feel.
Her eyes narrow slightly and the silence returns for a heartbeat longer than it should, which is answer enough on its own even before she finally replies in a controlled voice that carries the faintest edge of warning. “Bron.”
“That’s not a denial,” I reply, and I keep my tone light even though the arithmetic inside my head is becoming louder by the second.
She exhales slowly through her nose, clearly counting something in her head before responding, and then she crosses her arms in front of her chest as if bracing herself for impact. “This isn’t any of your business.”
“I think that depends,” I say, tilting my head slightly as I study her expression with the same careful attention I once used to watch audiences during a performance, searching for the moment when the energy in a room shifts. “Who’s his father?”
The question lands between us with the weight of something far heavier than a simple inquiry, and the effect on her is immediate.
The composure she has been holding like armor tightens even further, and for a fraction of a second I see something flash across her face that looks dangerously close to fear before she locks it down again with that same rigid control she has been using since the moment she realized I saw the child.
She turns her head slightly, as though the wall beside us has suddenly become fascinating, and when she finally answers her voice is steady but noticeably cooler.
“He isn’t in the picture,” she says.
The explanation settles in my stomach like a stone, not because the words themselves are impossible but because they arrive too quickly, too neatly, the kind of response someone prepares long before the question is asked.
I lean one shoulder against the wall, studying her profile while the numbers continue arranging themselves in my head whether I invite them or not.
“Not in the picture,” I repeat slowly, giving the phrase room to breathe in the quiet hallway before continuing in a tone that remains deliberately calm. “That’s a very convenient description for a missing father.”
“It’s accurate,” she replies, still not looking directly at me.
“How old is he?” I ask, because once the question begins it becomes impossible to stop following it wherever it leads.
Her head turns sharply at that, and the tension in her posture deepens as though the number itself carries a danger she would rather avoid.
For several seconds she says nothing at all, and that silence stretches long enough to confirm what my instincts are already telling me.
When she finally answers, the word comes out tight but unmistakable.
“Two.”
The number drops into my mind and immediately triggers the calculation that has been waiting behind it.
Two years old, which means conception roughly two years and nine months ago, which means the timeline overlaps with a particular stretch of my life that I remember with uncomfortable clarity.
I run that arithmetic again just to be certain I am not inventing patterns that do not exist, but the numbers stubbornly refuse to rearrange themselves into something less unsettling.
“That’s interesting,” I say quietly, though the understatement feels absurd even as it leaves my mouth.
“You’re imagining things,” she replies, turning toward me now with a look that tries very hard to be dismissive but fails to hide the tension behind it.
“Am I?” I ask, and the question is not really rhetorical because I would very much like the answer to be yes.
“Yes,” she says firmly, and for a moment we simply stand there measuring each other in silence while the noise of the compound drifts faintly through the corridor.
I drag a hand across the back of my neck, trying to decide whether pushing harder will reveal anything useful or simply force her to shut down completely, and the conflict inside my head grows louder with every passing second.
Part of me wants to demand a straight answer, to press the logic of the timeline until the truth falls out whether she intends to reveal it or not, but another part recognizes that Tilda has never responded well to being cornered.
Finally I release a slow breath and straighten away from the wall. “All right,” I say, the word leaving my mouth with reluctant acceptance even though my brain is still chewing on the same unresolved calculation.
Her shoulders ease by the smallest fraction, the kind of subtle shift most people would miss but which stands out clearly to someone who has spent years learning how she moves when she feels threatened.
Before either of us can continue the conversation, the compound loudspeakers crackle overhead with the familiar voice of Captain Photonic announcing the next challenge briefing.
The interruption arrives with the perfect timing of a theatrical cue, and for a moment neither of us speaks as the announcement echoes through the corridor.
The psychological challenge arena turns out to be a carefully constructed trap disguised as a therapy session, complete with soft lighting, circular seating arrangements, and a massive overhead screen displaying the words RELATIONSHIP TRUTH TEST in letters large enough to make the intention unmistakable.
The room buzzes with nervous energy as contestants file in, many of them already whispering arguments before the first question even appears, and the entire setup radiates the unmistakable scent of manipulation.
I glance sideways at Tilda as we take our seats, noticing the way she scans the room with analytical focus while clearly trying to ignore the unfinished conversation still hovering between us.
“Plan?” I murmur under my breath once the moderator begins explaining the rules.
“Don’t engage,” she replies quietly, her gaze still fixed on the screen.
“That sounds suspiciously mature,” I say, allowing a faint smile to touch my voice.
“I know that’s difficult for you,” she answers without looking at me.
The first question appears overhead, phrased in exactly the kind of provocative language designed to ignite resentment between former partners, and the reaction around the room is immediate.
Several couples begin arguing almost instantly, voices rising as the producers clearly hoped they would, while cameras drift closer to capture every sharp word and emotional outburst. I glance at Tilda again, remembering the tension that flared between us only minutes earlier, and then I make a decision that surprises even me.
“Probably me,” I say when the moderator asks which partner bears more responsibility for the relationship failing, and the admission feels oddly easy once it leaves my mouth.
Tilda turns her head sharply, clearly not expecting that answer, but I simply shrug and lean back in my chair as if the conclusion has been obvious all along.
The moderator nods approvingly and marks something on a tablet, and the audience reaction meter above the stage ticks upward as if cooperation itself is a rare commodity in a room full of wounded exes.
The next question appears almost immediately, this one aimed directly at parenting competence, and the timing of it lands with uncomfortable precision given the conversation we just had.
I feel Tilda go completely still beside me, the way someone freezes when a spotlight suddenly swings in their direction, and without allowing myself time to reconsider I answer before she can say a word.
“Tilda,” I say simply, gesturing toward her with a small, matter-of-fact motion that draws a ripple of laughter from the audience. “I can barely keep a cactus alive.”
For a moment she just looks at me, clearly unsure whether I am joking or deflecting something far more complicated, but the moderator’s enthusiastic approval quickly pushes the round forward to the next question.
As the challenge continues the pattern repeats itself again and again, each prompt designed to provoke resentment while we calmly sidestep the trap with careful agreement and quiet humor.
Around us the arguments grow louder as other couples fall into exactly the kind of televised conflict the producers hoped for, but the more chaos erupts across the room the more deliberate our cooperation becomes.
By the time the final results appear on the overhead screen, the audience approval ratings have climbed sharply in our favor, and the cheers from the crowd carry a tone of genuine enthusiasm rather than simple spectacle.
Tilda exhales slowly beside me as the scoreboard confirms that we have advanced safely to the next stage, and when she glances toward me I notice the subtle shift in her expression that suggests she is reassessing something she previously believed about me.
For my part, I lean back in my chair and watch the room settle around us while the unresolved question about that child continues turning quietly in the background of my mind.
The realization that finally takes shape is both frustrating and strangely enlightening, because it becomes obvious that pressing Tilda for answers will only drive her further into silence.
If the truth is going to emerge, it will not come from cornering her in a hallway or demanding explanations she is not ready to give.
It will come from patience, from the slow accumulation of trust that makes secrets harder to hold.
That realization might be inconvenient for a man whose entire life has been built on impulsive decisions and dramatic gestures, but as I watch Tilda sitting beside me with her arms folded and her expression thoughtful, I recognize with a quiet certainty that patience may be the only strategy that actually works.