Mara
Two months after the Galactic Survivor Games ended, Mara had learned three things:
She hated press conferences.
She hated promotional events even more.
And she really hated being called “Earth’s Sweetheart Champion” by reporters who didn’t know the first thing about her.
The GSG had held her to every clause of her contract—interviews, appearances, product endorsements, even a cooking segment where she had to pretend, she knew what she was doing with an ancient Earth spice rack. She smiled, she waved, she answered questions, she posed for photos.
She hated every second of it.
But the moment she was free, she went home.
Straight to her father.
The treatments she’d fought so hard to win the credits for began immediately. And miracle of miracles—he responded well. Better than well. He was recovering at home now, walking around, cracking jokes, and complaining about her cooking like nothing had changed.
Mara spent every day with him. She cooked (badly), cleaned (begrudgingly), and hovered (unapologetically). She didn’t go out. She didn’t see friends. She didn’t sleep much. But she was there.
Today, Valorie was coming over with dinner—real food, edible food, food that didn’t require Mara to search “how to boil water correctly.”
There was a knock at the apartment door.
Mara opened it to find Valorie juggling two large grocery bags and wearing a grin that said she was ready to cause trouble.
“Move, woman,” Valorie said. “This stuff is heavy.”
Mara laughed and grabbed one of the bags. “What did you bring, a whole restaurant?”
“Close. I brought enough to save your father from starvation.”
As if summoned by the word food, her father shuffled out of his bedroom, sniffing the air dramatically.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said to Valorie. “If I have to eat one more thing Mara ‘dabbles’ at, I think I’ll cry.”
“Dad!” Mara gasped, scandalized.
Valorie burst out laughing. “Go sit at the table, Martin. I’ll bring everything.”
“I can help,” Mara protested. “This is my home, you know.”
Valorie waved her off. “Go sit with your father. Let someone wait on you for a change.”
Mara grumbled but obeyed, plopping into the chair across from her dad.
“I thought you liked my cooking,” she said with an exaggerated pout.
Her father reached across the table and patted her hand. “Normally I do. But you haven’t been yourself lately.”
“I’m me,” she insisted.
“No, you’re not.” He gave her a look only a parent could give—equal parts gentle and brutally honest. “You haven’t found pleasure in anything. You don’t go out with your friends. You stay home with me all the time. You quit your job. You try making all these weird foods because nothing tastes good to you anymore. And you don’t sleep at night.”
Mara looked away.
It was hard to sleep when she’d gotten used to falling asleep in Vaelor’s arms. Harder still to wake up without him there.
