Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Zane
Mia was alive.
I sat on the hotel lobby couch, staring at the crystal chandelier overhead, that single thought looping through my brain. Three days ago, she'd spoken her first words to me—"You've got the wrong person"—and I'd completely shattered.
Not the hysterical kind of breakdown. The quiet kind—the internal collapse, like a building whose foundation termites had been gnawing at for twenty years, finally caving in on some ordinary afternoon. One moment standing, the next—dust.
She was alive. Not just alive—she could speak normally now. Her voice was better than I'd imagined—a little raspy, like whiskey cut with honey. Every word hit my eardrums and burned straight into my brain, incinerating every psychological defense I'd built over five years.
But she said she didn't know me.
She said she was Vela, not Mia. She said I had the wrong person. When she spoke, her eyes were calm as stagnant water—no hate, no anger, no pain. Nothing. And indifference cut deeper than hatred ever could.
For the next three days, I stalked her like some creep. I sat in the café across from her hotel, staring through the window at the entrance, like a dog abandoned by the roadside—knowing its owner wasn't coming back but refusing to move.
On the third evening, I finally found my chance to approach her.
Rabid fans had her cornered in a back alley, her security scattered by the crowd, her back against the wall, panic flashing briefly in her eyes.
My body reacted before my brain—I charged in, grabbed her wrist, shifted, threw her onto my back, and bolted.
I ran until I was sure no one had followed.
Then I realized I'd brought her to Mist Forest.
And I couldn't howl for help.
We wandered Mist Forest for three hours, completely lost. The fog thickened, the air cold as a freezer. She wore that thin performance dress, a moving constellation in the mist.
But she was shivering. I could see it. Her shoulders trembled slightly, her lips turning purple, but she didn't stop, didn't complain, didn't even glance back at me. She'd rather freeze to death than come near me.
That realization sawed at my heart like a dull blade.
I suggested making a fire. She proved herself far more useful than me—she tore a strip from her hem, struck sparks with a flint, and lit a pile of dry moss and twigs. The whole process was seamless, as if to say: See? I can survive without you. Actually, I thrive without you.
Once the fire was going, she sat at one end, me at the other. The flames between us jumped and flickered, light and shadow crossing back and forth like an uncrossable barrier.
She glanced at me, then shifted farther away.
Small movement, barely noticeable. But I caught it. Her body language screamed: Don't come near me. Don't touch me. Don't think there's anything left between us.
I offered to shift and keep her warm. She refused, her tone cold as a winter blade. "I don't need your help."
Then she curled into a ball against a tree trunk, willing to endure the night like that rather than accept my warmth.
I watched her. Watched her stubbornly, defiantly reject everything I offered. That feeling—being excluded, rejected, treated like plague—hurt worse than any pain I'd ever known.
Because I deserved it.
I stood, using the excuse of gathering firewood, and walked into the darkness. When I returned, she'd fallen asleep against the trunk—or was pretending to. Her breathing was shallow, eyelashes trembling slightly, clearly not truly asleep, but she'd rather fake it than talk to me.
I shifted into wolf form and lay beside her, curling into an arc around her. I didn't touch her—I deliberately kept about a hand's width of distance—but my body heat radiated across the gap like a warm barrier.
Her breathing gradually steadied. The shivering decreased. Her body unconsciously leaned toward me slightly, instinctively seeking warmth in sleep.
I closed my eyes, feeling her breath.
For the first time in five years, I fell asleep beside her.
The next morning, voices woke me.
Not birdsong. Human voices—distant shouts, intermittent, like someone calling a name. My eyes snapped open, ears perked, wolf hearing automatically locking onto the direction.
"Vela! Vela—"
Male voice. Deep, anxious. Getting closer.
I shifted back to human form, stood, and looked toward the sound. The fog had thinned since last night, sunlight filtering through the canopy and dappling the forest floor. I could see several figures moving through the trees, searching in our direction.
The man in front wore a dark green jacket, carried a walking stick, and moved quickly and steadily—someone who'd walked these woods countless times. His gaze swept the area, then—
He saw us.
More precisely, he saw her.
His expression changed instantly—from tense to relieved. He hurried over, circling fallen logs, crossing a stream, then stopped a few meters away.
"Vela!" he said, voice heavy with relief. "Thank God you're okay."
Then he looked at me.
That look—not curiosity, not hostility, but swift professional assessment. Top to bottom, from my face to my clothing—or lack thereof—then his gaze returned to my face. His expression barely changed, but I caught wariness flash in his eyes.
"And this is?" he asked me, but his gaze had already returned to Mia.
Mia finally woke then. She opened her eyes, saw the man, froze momentarily, then—
She smiled.
Not that polite, perfunctory smile. A genuine, relaxed smile—like seeing her savior. She stood, brushed dirt and leaves from her dress, and walked toward him.
"Ethan," she said, her tone carrying a lightness I'd never heard before. "How did you find us?"
"Your security said some lunatic kidnapped you," the man called Ethan said, concern in his voice. "I mobilized three search teams and followed your scent here. Next time you want to play wilderness survival, can you give me a heads up?"
"There won't be a next time," she said with a laugh.
Their conversation—natural, in sync, like they'd rehearsed it a thousand times—made acid churn in my stomach. The way they spoke, how they looked at each other, that wordless understanding—
That came from time. Five years of accumulated time.
In five years, she'd met new people, built new relationships, and created a new life. And I—I had nothing. Just ashes and regret, and a throat that couldn't make sound.
"This is King Zane from Moonhowl Kingdom," Mia told Ethan, her tone flat as if introducing furniture. "He 'happened' to get lost in Mist Forest last night, too."
Happened. The way she said "happened"—like telling a joke. A joke only she found funny.
Ethan looked at me and bowed. "A pleasure, Your Majesty. I'm Ethan Blackwood, Vela's manager."
Standard business etiquette, no more, no less, perfectly measured. Then he turned to Mia and naturally took the small bag she'd been carrying all night—the little crossbody bag—and slung it over his own shoulder.
That gesture. That natural, practiced gesture—like he'd done it countless times.
"Let's go," he said. "The car's outside the forest. Your security team's waiting."
Mia nodded and followed him a couple of steps, then stopped.
She didn't turn around. But she paused, as if hesitating for a second, then kept walking.
Ethan walked beside her, and after a few steps, tilted his head slightly—from an angle only I could see—and gave me a look.
Not challenging. Not smug. Just calm, certain observation. As if saying: See? She chose to walk with me. She chose my world.
Then he turned back and walked into the forest alongside her.
I stood there, watching their figures shrink, finally swallowed by trees and shadows.
She left.
Again.
I looked down at the extinguished campfire. The ashes still held a trace of warmth, like the temperature she'd left when sleeping beside me last night. But that warmth was rapidly fading, just like her—every time I thought I'd caught her, she slipped through my fingers, leaving only ash.
I clenched my fists.
No. I wouldn't lose her again this time.
Three days later, I stood outside her tour's final performance venue, clutching a bouquet of sunflowers.
I knew it was corny. I knew. But I chose sunflowers because they looked like her—stubborn, growing toward the sun, lifting their heads even after storms.
The show ended. The crowd poured out like a tide. I waited by the exit, heart pounding like a drum.
Then she emerged. Wearing a simple white dress, hair styled, still masked. She looked so beautiful I forgot to breathe.
But Ethan walked beside her. He carried a massive bouquet—at least fifty red roses dotted with baby's breath. He smiled as he handed it to her. She took it, lowered her head to smell them, then looked up and gave him a smile.
That smile was a knife, precisely inserted into my heart.
I took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Vela."
She stopped and turned. The moment she saw me, her smile vanished. Like someone flipped a switch—all warmth and light instantly extinguished, replaced by cold, guarded expression.
"Yes?"
I held out the sunflowers. "Congratulations on a successful show."
She looked at the flowers. Didn't take them. The silence lasted maybe three seconds. Each one felt like a century.
"Thanks," she said, tone polite but distant. "But I'm allergic to sunflowers."
She turned and walked away.
I stood there, holding those sunflowers like a clown.
Then I heard a voice—a little girl's voice, clear and cheerful, ringing through the air like silver bells.
"Mommy!"
I turned my head.
A little girl ran from the crowd, rushing toward Mia. Maybe three or four years old, dark brown hair in two pigtails, wearing a pink dress.
My brain went blank. Blood froze in that instant, then instantly boiled. My heart stopped beating, then slammed violently against my chest at a near-frantic pace. That child—
Mia bent down, scooped up the little girl, and kissed her cheek. "Lily! What are you doing here?"
"I couldn't wait!" The girl wrapped her arms around Mia's neck, burying her face in her shoulder adorably. "I missed Mommy so much!"
Mia laughed. That tender, indulgent, wholehearted smile.
I stood there feeling the whole world spin. "She—" I started, my voice hoarse like someone was choking me. "Is she your child?"
Mia's expression froze. She looked at me, eyes flashing with complex emotions—wariness, defensiveness, and a hint of barely perceptible panic.
Then she did something that shattered my heart completely.
She turned her head, looked at Ethan, and slipped her arm through his.
"Yes," she said, voice calm as a weather report. "She's my daughter. And Ethan—is her father."
Ethan froze. The pause was brief, almost imperceptible—then he reached out, wrapped his arm around Mia's shoulders, and smiled with a nod.
"Yes," he said. "She's our daughter."
The little girl—Lily—looked up at Ethan, then at Mia, and stayed obediently quiet.
Those words hit like a hammer to my chest.
I looked at them—Mia, Ethan, and that child—standing together like a perfect family portrait. Sunlight bathed them, gilding them with golden light. They looked so harmonious, so complete, so—
So like they didn't need me.
Mia held the child and turned to leave. Ethan walked beside her, one hand naturally resting on her waist. She showed no resistance, even leaning slightly toward him, as if relying on him.
I stood there watching their backs recede.
Those sunflowers were still clutched in my hand, petals glowing golden in the sun. I looked down at them, then looked up at the direction she'd disappeared.
Then I threw the bouquet into a nearby trash can.
I turned and walked in the opposite direction.
But after three steps, I stopped.
That child's eyes were gray-blue. She had eyes exactly like mine.