Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Mia
I lied.
When I said "Ethan is her father," I saw exactly what it did to Zane's face—like someone had carved a hole in his chest and all the light was draining out. His face went bone white in an instant, those gray-blue eyes wide, lips parted like he wanted to speak, but something was choking his throat.
I watched that expression, and something inside me twisted.
But I shoved the feeling down. Hard. Like stamping out a spark until it died completely.
Why would he look like that? Like he actually gave a damn about me.
Lily squirmed in my arms and said quietly, "Mommy, that man looks so sad."
"You're seeing things," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "We don't know him."
Lily tilted her head, studying me with those gray-blue eyes—identical to her father's—with an insight beyond her years. "But he keeps looking at you," she said. "Like a puppy watching its owner."
I felt something squeeze my heart.
I took a deep breath and changed the subject. "Baby, what do you want for dinner? Pasta or pizza?"
"Pizza!" Lily's attention shifted instantly, waving her little hands. "With cheese! Lots and lots of cheese!"
I carried her quickly toward the car waiting by the curb, Ethan beside me, one hand naturally resting on my waist—a gesture meant for Zane, I knew, but I didn't push him away. Because right now, I needed that barrier. I needed a shield between me and the man who broke my heart.
When the car door closed, I finally breathed.
As we pulled away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Zane still stood there, like a statue forgotten in the square. He clutched those sunflowers, petals glowing gold in the light. He didn't move, just stood there watching my car get smaller and smaller and smaller until it became a blur.
I turned back to face the road ahead.
"You okay?" Ethan's voice came from beside me, tinged with concern.
"I'm fine." But my knuckles were white where I gripped my dress.
Ethan was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "Maybe he could guess."
"What?"
"Guess that he's Lily's—"
My hand tightened. "He's not."
"Mia—"
"He's not," I cut him off, my voice colder than I meant. "A father is someone who stays up all night when she's sick, who builds blocks with her and reads her stories and catches her when she takes her first steps. Not some asshole who doesn't even know his daughter exists."
The car went quiet. Ethan sighed, covering my clenched hand with his. "I'm just worried about you. The look on your face when you saw him—"
"What look?"
"Like you saw a ghost. Like you saw a door you thought was locked forever, and suddenly realized it never was."
I didn't answer. Because he was too damn right, and I hated being seen through.
I closed my eyes, leaned back in my seat, and felt the car's steady motion. Lily had fallen asleep in my arms, her little head resting on my chest, breathing soft and even. Her warmth seeped through the fabric, warming my heart like a tiny hot water bottle.
I thought about five years ago.
When I'd just crawled out of the river, soaked through, teeth chattering, curled up in some strange fisherman's cabin.
I didn't know where I was, didn't know what came next, only knew that a tiny life was growing inside me—that man's child, the child of the man who didn't believe me, who used me as a tool, who pushed me toward death.
I'd thought about not keeping the baby.
The thought lasted maybe three days. I was terrified. Terrified that seeing her face would remind me of him, terrified her existence would become a shackle I could never escape, terrified I couldn't love a life that carried his blood.
Then I felt the first kick.
It was late at night, lying on that hard wooden bed in the fisherman's house, staring at cracks in the ceiling.
Suddenly, a flutter in my belly—like butterfly wings, like a fish flicking its tail, like a tiny, fragile signal from deep inside my body, telling me: I'm here. I'm alive. I won't give up.
I cried.
That night, I cried for a long time. Not from sadness, but something I couldn't name—like light suddenly appearing in despair, like a drowning person catching a rope, like finding a seedling breaking through barren soil.
I decided to keep her.
The days after were hard. So hard. I had nothing, no one to lean on, pregnant, not even a place to stay. I sang in a dingy tavern for food and shelter, sang until my voice went hoarse, until my feet blistered, sang while drunks threw coins at my feet.
Then I met Ethan.
He showed up at that run-down tavern wearing an expensive-looking navy coat, completely out of place. He ordered a whiskey, sat in the corner, and listened to my entire set.
After the show, he walked up and handed me a business card.
"Your voice is special," he said. "If you're interested, we could talk about working together."
I stared at that card for a long time. Then I looked up and asked, "Do you believe in fate?"
He smiled. "No. But I believe in talent."
That was five years ago. Since then, Ethan had become my manager and my most trusted friend.
He arranged my first real performance and signed my first record deal.
He stayed with me through the hardest pregnancy months, sat with me all night when postpartum depression hit, held my hand before my first major stage appearance when I was shaking with nerves, and said, "You can do this. I always knew you could."
He's Lily's godfather, one of the most important male figures in her life.
He takes her to fly kites on weekends, brings her giant teddy bears for her birthday, and when she asks "why don't I have a daddy," he kneels down to her eye level and says, "You do have a father.
He's just not with us right now. But you have your mom, and Uncle Ethan, and so many people who love you. "
I know he has feelings for me. The kind that go beyond friendship and work.
I've never asked, he's never said, but there's an understanding between us—he won't cross that line, and I won't pretend I don't see it.
I just... can't respond. Because there's a wound inside me that will never heal.
Too deep for me to trust anyone again, too deep to put my heart in someone else's hands.
I don't want to use Ethan's feelings, don't want to owe anyone.
But now, to keep Zane from knowing Lily is his daughter, I used Ethan. The realization made my stomach turn.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, eyes still closed.
"Sorry for what?"
"Earlier—saying you're Lily's father. I shouldn't have dragged you into this."
Ethan was quiet for a few seconds, then chuckled softly. "It's fine. I wouldn't mind being her dad anyway—officially or otherwise."
I opened my eyes and turned to look at him. Light from passing windows played across his face in shifting shadows. His expression was calm, a faint smile on his lips, but something in his eyes I couldn't read.
"Ethan—"
"Don't," he interrupted, voice gentle but firm. "I know what you're going to say. You don't need to. I chose to stay, not because I expect anything back, but because I want to. You don't need to feel indebted."
I opened my mouth, wanted to say something, but my throat felt blocked. Finally, I just nodded and closed my eyes again.
The car continued forward, carrying us through the night, toward the place we temporarily called home.
The next night there was a celebration party.
A wrap party for my tour's final stop, in a penthouse restaurant at a luxury hotel, with media and industry people invited. I wore a deep red gown, hair swept into a loose bun, pearl earrings—a gift from Ethan for the successful tour.
The whole night I smiled, shook hands, made small talk, and posed for photos. My face ached from smiling, my feet screamed in heels like I was walking on broken glass, but this was part of the job. You stand in the spotlight, radiant, and no one knows your feet are bleeding.
At one a.m., the party finally ended.
Ethan drove me home—the apartment I rented in Silverpine Kingdom, top floor of an old building downtown, with a small balcony overlooking the city skyline. The car stopped outside. I thanked Ethan and dragged my exhausted body toward the entrance.
Then I heard a guitar.
Not professional, smooth playing. Choppy, like someone learning as they went, obvious pauses between chord changes, some notes not quite right, creating slight buzzing.
I stopped.
The sound came from across the street. I turned and saw—
Zane.
He sat on the steps of the opposite sidewalk, holding a wooden guitar, head down, focused on plucking the strings. He wore a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open, hair a mess, looking like he hadn't slept in days. Streetlight poured over him, casting a dim yellow halo.
He looked up and saw me.
Then he started singing.
"I walked a thousand miles to find you,
And I found you standing in the rain..."
His voice was rough and low, carrying an indescribable weariness. But his eyes—those gray-blue eyes—glowed bright under the streetlight like two rain-washed jewels, staring straight at me like nothing else in the world existed.
Problem was, he sang really badly.
I'm not being cruel. I'm serious. His pitch wavered, some high notes he couldn't reach so he forced through with falsetto, sounding like he was murdering a cat.
His guitar accompaniment was even worse, chord changes slow as climbing stairs, some places with obvious pauses like he suddenly forgot the next chord.
But the lyrics—
"You were the sun I didn't deserve,
But I'm standing here, burning in your light..."
The lyrics were... good. Good enough to make my chest tight. Those words like small knives, stabbing precisely into some place inside me I thought had gone numb.
I stood there on the street at one a.m., listening to a king use his terrible guitar skills and off-key voice to sing me a love song.
People started gathering.