Youre Not Done
Melody stepped into the gleaming lobby of Holt Enterprises, the familiar scent of polished marble and expensive coffee hitting her like a memory she couldn’t escape. Heads turned. Whispers rippled across the open space... quiet, curious, judgmental.
“Is that her?”
“The one who killed Ashton?”
“Why is she here?”
“Isn't she divorced?”
She heard every word. Felt every stare.
But she didn’t flinch.
Didn’t slow.
Didn’t care.
She was here for Symphony.
Christian had called her at 8:47 a.m., voice low, clipped, almost reluctant.
“Symphony’s sick. Fever. Won’t eat. Come to my office. 10 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”
No pleasantries. No softness.
Just the command.
Melody had called the coffee shop immediately, taken the day off without hesitation.
Now she crossed the lobby in quick strides, coat still on, short hair tucked behind her ears. Employees parted around her like water around a stone, some stared openly, others pretended not to see.
She reached the private elevators.
Marcus was already waiting.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, expression neutral but eyes kind. He gave her a small nod... no smile, no judgment, just acknowledgment.
“Melody.”
“Marcus.”
The elevator doors slid open.
They stepped inside together.
The ride up was silent at first.
The numbers climbed steadily.
Marcus spoke quietly, breaking the quiet.
“She’s been crying,” he said. “Not eating. Not sleeping. Christian’s… worried.”
Melody’s throat tightened.
She stared at the glowing floor numbers.
“I know,” she whispered.
Marcus glanced at her sideways.
“He didn’t want to call you. But he did. That says something.”
Melody didn’t reply.
She just clutched her bag tighter.
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened onto the executive floor... quiet, carpeted, powerful.
Marcus led her down the hallway, past glass-walled offices and whispering assistants, to Christian’s corner suite.
He paused outside the double doors.
“He’s in there with her,” Marcus said softly. “Go on.”
Melody nodded once.
She pushed the doors open.
Christian stood near the window, Symphony in his arms.
The baby was flushed, eyes glassy, little body limp against his chest. She whimpered faintly, small hand clutching his tie.
Christian looked up.
Their eyes met.
For one heartbeat, the room held only the sound of Symphony’s soft, unhappy cries.
Then Melody moved.
She crossed the room in quick, silent steps and reached for her daughter.
Christian hesitated then gently transferred Symphony into her waiting arms.
The baby quieted almost instantly.
Her small face nuzzled into Melody’s neck.
A tiny sigh escaped her.
Melody pressed her lips to Symphony’s hot forehead, tears slipping down her own cheeks.
“I’m here, baby,” she whispered. “Mama’s here.”
Christian stood a step back, hands flexing at his sides, watching them.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
The sight said everything.
×××××××
Christian leaned back in his leather chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the scene unfolding on the carpet in front of his desk.
Melody sat cross-legged on the floor, Symphony cradled in her lap. The baby was alert now, fever broken for the moment, tiny hands reaching for the milk bottle Melody held. Melody fed her slowly, murmuring soft nonsense.
“There you go, my love… slow sips, that’s it… Mama’s got you…”
Symphony drank greedily, eyes locked on Melody’s face, small fingers curling around the bottle like she was afraid it would disappear.
Every few seconds she paused to smile...
gummy, wide, pure joy, then dove back in.
Melody laughed quietly, brushing a curl from Symphony’s forehead, kissing the top of her head.
“She’s happy,” Melody whispered, almost to herself. “Look at her… she’s really happy.”
Christian watched every second of it.
He had never seen Symphony like this. Not with Sally, not with Ashley, not even with him.
Not this calm.
Not this content.
Not this… loved.
His chest tightened.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice low and edged.
“You’ve done something to her, haven’t you?”
Melody’s head snapped up.
Her smile vanished.
The bottle paused halfway to Symphony’s mouth.
“What?”
Christian’s eyes narrowed.
“She’s been sick for days. Fussy. Refusing food. Crying nonstop. Then you walk in, hold her for ten minutes, and suddenly she’s perfect. What did you do?”
Melody stared at him, disbelief flickering across her face.
“I didn’t do anything,” she said slowly. “I just… held her. Fed her. Loved her. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
Christian scoffed... short and bitter.
“Right. Because you’re the perfect mother. The one who drove my brother to suicide and then played victim.”
Melody’s grip on the bottle tightened.
Symphony whimpered at the sudden tension.
“Don’t,” Melody said, voice trembling but firm. “Don’t bring Ashton into this. Not now. Not when she’s right here.”
Christian stood abruptly, chair scraping back.
“Why not? It’s the truth. You rejected him. You broke him. He loved you. Really loved you, and you let him die.”
Melody carefully set the bottle aside and lifted Symphony to her shoulder, patting her back in slow circles.
The baby quieted against her, but Melody’s eyes blazed.
“He didn’t love me, Christian. He wanted to own me. He harassed me. Cornered me. Threatened me. Watched me in my own home with cameras he planted. And when I said no, when I fought back, he made sure everyone thought I was the monster.”
Christian’s jaw clenched.
“That’s a lie. I knew him. I saw how he looked at you. He was devoted.”
“He was obsessed,” Melody shot back. “There’s a difference. And you believed him. You married me to punish me for it. You threw me to your mother like meat to wolves. You let them cut my hair. Carve into my skin. Take my child. And now you stand there accusing me of hurting her?”
Christian stepped closer, voice dropping dangerously low.
“I did what I had to. For him. For justice.”
“Justice?” Melody’s laugh was broken, bitter. “You call this justice? You divorced me. You let Victoria turn me into nothing. And now you’re engaged to Ashley. Weeks after throwing me out. You think that’s justice?”
Christian flinched but Melody saw it.
She stood slowly, Symphony still nestled against her shoulder.
“I loved you,” she said quietly. “I loved you for years before any of this happened. And you never saw it. You never wanted to see it. You chose hate instead. And now you’re choosing her.”
Christian’s hands clenched at his sides.
“You think I wanted this?” he said through gritted teeth. “You think I wanted to watch my daughter cry for someone I hate? You think I wanted to propose to Ashley because I had no other choice?”
Melody’s eyes filled with tears.
“Then why did you?”
“Because she calms her,” he said, voice raw. “Because she’s there. Because you’re not.”
Melody’s breath hitched.
“I would have been. If you hadn’t taken her from me.”
Christian looked away, jaw working.
The room fell silent except for Symphony’s soft breathing against Melody’s neck.
Melody kissed her daughter’s head one more time, then gently handed her back to Christian.
“She needs you,” she whispered. “But she needs me too. Don’t ever forget that.”
Christian took Symphony, arms stiff, eyes fixed on the floor.
Melody stepped back.
“I’ll see her next time,” she said quietly. “If you let me.”
She turned and walked toward the door.
Christian spoke without looking up.
“Melody.”
She paused.
He finally met her eyes... pain, anger, doubt all tangled together.
“Get out.”
She left.
The door closed softly behind her.
Christian stood there, holding his daughter, staring at the empty space where Melody had been.
Symphony stirred in his arms, small hand reaching toward the door.
As if calling for her mother.
Christian pressed his lips to her curls, voice barely audible.
“I know, baby,” he whispered. “I know.”
But he didn’t move.
He just held her.
And let the silence swallow them both.
×××××××
Melody stepped into Haven Brew just before the lunch rush, still carrying the quiet warmth from holding Symphony in her arms earlier.
The short boy cut felt lighter today, her steps a little surer.
She tied her apron with quick, practiced motions, already mentally running through the orders she knew by heart.
.. double espresso for the lawyer in the corner, oat milk latte for the woman with the laptop.
Carla was behind the counter, wiping it down with a rag. She looked up as Melody approached, and something in her expression made Melody’s stomach drop.
“Melody,” Carla said, voice low but firm. “We need to talk. Now.”
Melody’s hands stilled on the apron strings.
“Okay… what’s wrong?”
Carla glanced toward the front of the shop, where a few VIP regulars sat with their laptops and designer bags, then back at Melody.
“I got a call this morning,” she said. “Anonymous. They said you’re an ex-convict. Manslaughter charge. Unstable. Dangerous to customers. They threatened to spread it online if we kept you.”
Melody felt the blood drain from her face.
“That’s… that’s not true. The charges were dropped. I was never convicted of anything. I—”
Carla held up a hand.
“I don’t care what the truth is. I run a business. This place is full of high-profile people... lawyers, executives, politicians. One viral post saying we employ someone with a violent past, and we’re done. I can’t risk it.”
Melody’s throat closed.
“I’ve been here almost every day for weeks. I’ve never caused trouble. I—”
“I know,” Carla cut in, softer now, almost regretful. “You’re good. Quiet. Reliable. But I have a responsibility to the customers. To the business. I’m sorry, Melody. You’re fired. Effective immediately.”
The words landed like a slap.
Melody stood there, stunned, apron half-tied.
Carla sighed.
“Take the apron off. Leave the name tag on the counter. I’ll walk you out.”
Melody’s hands moved on autopilot. She untied the apron slowly, folded it with shaking fingers, and placed it on the counter. The name tag felt like a brand as she set it down.
A few customers looked up, curious, then whispering.
One woman near the window, expensive coat, diamond studs, leaned toward her friend and murmured, loud enough to carry:
“Is that the one? The murderer?”
Another laughed softly.
“Guess they’ll hire anyone these days.”
Carla stepped forward, gesturing toward the door.
“Let’s go, Melody.”
Melody walked ahead of her, head high even as tears burned behind her eyes.
The whispers followed her like smoke.
At the door, Carla paused.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, quieter. “It’s not personal.”
Melody looked at her.
“It is to me,” she whispered.
Then she pushed the door open and stepped out into the cold.
The bell chimed behind her, cheerful and mocking.
She stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, breath fogging in the air, hands clenched at her sides.
No job.
No money.
No way to fight for her daughter.
And the one place she’d started to feel a tiny bit safe had just spit her out like trash.
She walked away, tears finally falling freely now.
And in her heart, a stubborn voice whispered:
You’re not done.
Not even close.
×××××××