I’m three sips into a lukewarm stimbrew when the galaxy cracks open again.
It starts with a chime. Just one. Soft, innocuous. My compad pings like it’s got a weather alert, maybe a storm cell rolling through a dead zone. But my gut—the same one that told me Argus’s file wasn’t noise—twists hard. I glance at the screen and freeze.
Trending: Blastaar’s Secret Romance?
Photo: Galactic Gladiator Caught Cuddling Mystery Child
My stimbrew clatters onto the console. Splashes across my thigh. I don’t feel it.
Because right there, plastered in ten thousand pixel clarity, is Valtron. In his arena casuals. Shirt tight enough to worship his biceps, a synth-wrapped box of sweet cubes in one hand, and in the other—Ripley. My daughter. Our daughter. Her tiny arm looped around his neck, her face buried in the curve of his collarbone like that’s where she’s always belonged.
The caption under it reads: “Who’s the little mystery girl? Fans speculate on Blastaar’s softer side.”
I bite my knuckle to keep from screaming.
“Rhea?” Kaelor leans in from the other room, one cybernetic eye blinking a slow diagnostic blue. “You okay in there?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
I pull up the source. Some junior producer with more ambition than brain cells had clearly been lurking outside the sweets vendor. Probably waiting for Valtron to flex or curse or give them something juicy. Instead, he picked Ripley up like she was spun sugar and kissed the top of her head.
And now the whole fucking Holonet knows.
I’m on my feet before my brain catches up. The room spins, but I shove my legs forward, pacing the narrow corridor of the bunker like I can outrun the fallout.
My anonymity—gone.
I grab the compad and open my emergency contacts. Third one down: Marla Vex, ex-fed, now doing private security consulting for those of us who didn’t plan to be famous.
She answers in half a ring.
“Rhea Hart. Never thought I’d see your name pop up again. Trouble?”
“Code Cyan. I need extraction protocols for a minor.”
A pause. “Jesus. That serious?”
“Worse. Someone found Ripley.”
Her breath hitches. “I’ll start scrambling. Any location I need to scrub?”
“Daycare,” I rasp. “She’s at StellarSprouts off of Fifth. Her ID’s under ‘Keely Hart.’ Pull her. Now.”
“I’m on it.”
I hang up. My hands shake so hard I almost drop the compad.
Footsteps thunder down the metal hallway. Then Valtron’s there, filling the doorway like a walking war crime in sweats and a half-zipped tactical vest.
“I saw,” he says, breath ragged. “I was on a maintenance call when it hit the net.”
“You held her in public.” My voice comes out strangled. “You—you let someone see her face.”
His jaw ticks. “She asked for sweets. She begged. I didn’t think?—”
“No,” I cut in, hands slicing through the air. “You didn’t think. You never think. You just react. Claws first, questions later. You promised me—we agreed—no photos, no slipups, no shows of affection in public!”
