Chapter 19 #2
"Don't get too excited," she said coldly. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for those young people. They shouldn't lose their chance at happiness because of your mistakes."
I nodded. Her words cut like knives, but at least—she was staying.
She turned to leave, took two steps, then stopped.
"One more thing," she said without turning around. "About Lily—"
My heart jumped to my throat.
"What?"
She was silent for a few seconds. I could see her fingers tightening around the water cup.
"Nothing," she said. "Never mind."
She kept walking.
"Mia—"
She stopped.
I stood up and took a step toward her. My heart pounded in my chest, blood roaring in my ears. I knew I shouldn't ask. I knew this question would shred that thin layer of peace between us. But I had to know.
"Lily—" I began, voice rough as sandpaper scraping wood. "She's my daughter, isn't she?"
Her back went rigid.
The air solidified. The birdsong in the garden, the distant laughter, the fountain's babble—every sound vanished in that instant, leaving only the silence between us, thick as a wall.
She didn't turn around.
"What gives you the right to ask that?" Her voice was terrifyingly calm.
"Her eyes," I said. "Her eyes are gray-blue. My color."
Silence.
"Alphas have a sense for bloodlines," I continued, voice trembling. "I can feel it. From the first moment I saw her, I could feel it. I just—didn't dare confirm it."
She finally turned around.
Her expression was calm, but her eyes were red.
"Yes," she said, voice so light it could blow away on the wind. "She's your daughter."
Those words hit my chest like a hammer.
My knees went weak. I almost couldn't stand.
Lily. That girl who smiled with little fangs. That girl who held my hand at the playground and called me "Zane." That girl who said she'd fly to the moon when she grew up.
She was my daughter.
My daughter.
I'd missed the moment of her birth. Missed her first time opening her eyes. Missed her first laugh, her first crawl, her first steps, her first words. Missed every birthday, every Christmas, every moment she needed a father.
Five years.
I'd missed five years.
"Why—" my voice was barely audible. "Why didn't you tell me?"
She looked at me, and finally some emotion showed in those eyes—not anger, not resentment, but disappointment.
"Tell you what?" she said, voice flat as still water. "Tell you that you have a daughter so you could take her from me too? Just like you took my dignity, took everything?"
"I wouldn't—"
"You wouldn't?" She laughed once, joylessly. "The things you did to me five years ago—have you forgotten?"
I had no response.
Every word she spoke was a knife, precisely inserted into the softest part of my heart.
"I won't take her away," I said, voice hoarse. "I just... I want to know her. I want—"
"You want what?" She cut me off. "You want to be her dad? Five years, Zane. Five years. Do you know what those five years were like for me?"
Her voice finally wavered—not with anger, but with a fatigue that had been suppressed too long and was finally starting to crack.
"When I was pregnant, I threw up constantly, couldn't even keep down water. I curled up alone on that hard wooden bed in the fisherman's cottage, thinking maybe dying would be easier."
My heart felt like someone had gripped it in their fist.
"When she was born, I was in labor for sixteen hours. The midwife said, 'Push, push harder—' I used every ounce of strength I had, and then I heard her cry. That was the most beautiful sound I've ever heard in my life."
Her eyes reddened, but she didn't let the tears fall.
"The first time she had a fever, I held her outside the clinic for three hours. Her little face burned red, breathing rapid. I sat on that cold bench, holding her, praying—praying she'd make it through. Praying God wouldn't take her from me too."
"The first time she called me 'Mommy,' I cried all night. Not from happiness, but because—I wished someone could share that moment with me. I wished someone could be beside me, holding my hand, telling me, 'She called you. She said Mommy.'"
"But that person wasn't there."
Her voice finally trembled.
"Because that person was in the palace, with another woman in his arms, enjoying wealth and glory. And that person didn't even know his child existed."
Her tears finally fell.
Not sobbing, but quiet, suppressed tears, like water finally seeping out from a pipe that had been blocked too long. She wiped them with the back of her hand, but more tears came.
"Do you know what that feels like?" She looked at me, voice hoarse. "Do you know what it's like to carry everything alone?"
I stood there, feeling like my heart had been ripped out, thrown on the ground, and stomped to dust.
"I'm sorry," I said, voice barely audible. "I'm sorry. I didn't know then. I—"
"You didn't know," she interrupted, voice tinged with bitterness. "Of course you didn't. You never knew."
She turned to leave.
"Mia—"
"Don't follow me," she said, voice returning to that earlier calm, but that calm frightened me more than any emotion. "I need to be alone for a while."
She walked quickly toward the garden exit.
Then—
"Mommy!"
Lily ran out from behind the flower bushes and threw herself at Mia, hugging her legs.
"Mommy, why are you crying?" She looked up, saw the tears on Mia's face, and her little face immediately scrunched up. "Who hurt you?"
Mia quickly wiped her tears and crouched down, forcing a smile. "No one hurt Mommy, sweetheart. I just—got sand in my eyes."
"Liar!" Lily put her hands on her hips, looking like a little adult. "Mommy's lying!"
Lily turned her head, her gaze moving past Mia's shoulder to land on me.
Those gray-blue eyes—my eyes—stared at me with a scrutiny beyond her years.
Then she ran toward me.
"You!" She stood in front of me, looking up, little finger pointing at my nose. "Did you hurt Mommy?"
"I—"
"You did!" She interrupted, tears pooling in her eyes. "Mommy never cries! She only cries when she watches cartoons! You must have done something really, really bad!"
"Lily—" Mia tried to pull her back.
But Lily shook off her hand and continued glaring at me with those tear-filled eyes.
"You're a bad person!" she said, voice breaking. "I don't want to play with you anymore! Go away!"
She turned and ran back to Mia, hugging her legs, burying her face in her dress.
"Mommy, let's go," she said, voice muffled. "We don't want to stay with bad people."
Mia picked her up without looking at me.
She held Lily and turned toward the castle.
I stood there, watching their backs grow more distant.
Morning light fell on them, gilding them in a golden halo. Lily's little hands wrapped around Mia's neck, face buried in her shoulder. Mia walked quickly, back straight as a flagpole that would never bend.
They walked away.
Disappeared around the garden corner.
I stood there, feeling the whole world go quiet. Only the rustle of wind through leaves and the distant sound of the fountain.
My daughter said I was a bad person.
She was right.
I was.