CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
OPHELIA
The green consolelight winks at me, a silent pulse in the dim room. My fingers dance across the sliders, adjusting controls until the raw ache of Leo’s vocals match his written lyrics, finding harmony.
On the other side of the glass, Leo closes his eyes, gripping his headphones like he’s pushing the backing music into his ears by sheer force. A slight boy, he gives me everything he has, showcasing a voice far bigger than his bony frame.
I nudge a frequency band, soothing the harsh edge on his consonants.
Perfection.
I wait until the sound fades and his eyes flick open, then press the comms button. “Amazing effort, Leo. I think that’s the one.”
There’s a microsecond of relief, then he frowns. “Can I try again? I want the middle bridge harder. Angsty but like he’s carrying a grievance.”
And I thought I was a perfectionist. “Sure, we’ve got time for a few more.”
I reset everything, cueing it for another take before positioning my hands back at the controls.
The studio door bursts open.
A small comet in a yellow raincoat hurtles into the room, her matching gumboots squeaking on the polished concrete floor. “Mum!”
Mira.
My careful focus melts like a blown fuse. She crashes into my legs, wrapping her arms around my waist, and burying her face deep into my jersey. Her entire body vibrates with some fierce emotion.
I pull my headphones down around my neck. “Hey, sweetheart. What’s all this?”
I stroke her curls, a wild, dark cloud—Damien’s hair—but when she tilts her head back, the deep frown marks between her brows are all mine.
Damien follows her inside at a sedate pace, closing the door with a soft click.
He doesn’t rush. He never rushes. He moves through the world like he owns the air itself, a contained and silent force.
His hair’s still damp from the rain outside, and he shrugs off his coat, leaving it on the row of hooks. Our eyes meet over our daughter’s head, and a quiet acknowledgement passes between us. It’s an unspoken language we’ve built over our years together, and we’re the only two people who understand it.
He stops beside my chair, hand resting on my shoulder. Not a possessive grip, not any longer. It’s supportive. A quiet ‘here I am.’
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I ask Mira again, unbuttoning her wet coat. “Did something happen at kindy?”
She pulls back, her small face a thundercloud of indignation. “James is a big meanie,” she announces with the grave finality of a four-year-old supreme court judge.
“I’m sure he is,” I say. “What did the big meanie do?”
“He stole my dinosaur. The triceratops with the blue spots. He said finders keepers.” Her lower lip trembles with outrage. “But I’m the one who found it in the sandpit. It was mine.”
“Oh, honey. Did you tell Miss Evans?”
Mira’s expression shifts from outrage to something closer to triumph. A weird, cold little smile plays on her lips. “I didn’t have to. Daddy fixed it.”
My eyes snap up to Damien’s.Please tell me you didn’t.
He meets my gaze, unconcerned, unreadable,then shakes his head.I’ll tell you later.
A familiar feeling uncoils in my stomach. Part dread, part a dark, shameful thrill that never lessens. He fixed it. Of course he did. When it comes to Mira, he doesn’t believe in teachers or negotiations.
He believes in solutions and applying them the first moment he can.
