Finally.
“I was pregnant when you left,” she says.
No buildup. No warning. Just drops the grenade in my lap and watches me flinch.
I don’t speak.
Not yet.
She deserves the silence.
“The second I knew, I ran. I changed names, faces, blood types. Dowron’s people helped. But only if I cut all ties. No messages. No hints. No tracks.”
She swallows hard.
“I wanted to tell you. But I thought—I thought if I did, it’d get you killed. Or worse.”
My throat’s dry. My hands tremble in fists.
She wipes at her face but doesn’t cry.
Not really.
Her eyes are already too burned-out for that.
“I raised her alone. Taught her how to be brave, and loud, and sharp enough to bite back at the galaxy if it ever came for her. But every night when she asked about her dad, I had to lie.”
I breathe out, slow.
“Why me?” I ask. “Why here, now, after all this time?”
She laughs.
Bitter.
“That’s the galaxy’s joke, isn’t it? I thought I was done with pain. I thought I was safe. And then you came crashing back, larger than life, goddamn Blastaar.”
She spits the name like it offends her.
Maybe it should.
But it’s mine now.
“Do you hate me for it?” I ask.
She looks at me, finally.
Her eyes are stormy.
“Not as much as I want to.”
That hits harder than a blow.
And I deserve every ounce of it.
“I didn’t die,” I say. “Not really. But I wanted to.”
She frowns.
