“Did you hear me?” she demanded, her voice dragging me out of my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Enough is enough, Lee. You need to get your ass home. We have events to plan,” she snapped.
Events to plan… not a baby to prepare for.
Events.
Not a baby.
The words created a clean line in the sand. I let her voice drone on, sharp and efficient, as she listed off guests and venues, optics and expectations. She spoke like they were the only things that mattered—as if life was something to be staged and appraised by strangers who didn’t care about us.
And for a moment, while she prattled on about announcements and dinners and more bullshit I wanted no part of, I saw my entire childhood replay in my head. I grieved a childhood where being a kid wasn’t a possibility. Where my family’s status meant more than the fact that I existed. There was never room for softness or mistakes. No room for laughter or fun. I had been groomed, trained, and sculpted into something presentable long before I understood what that meant. My wants were unimportant, my feelings were inconvenient, and my family’s expectations came above everything else.
Status over self.
Image over truth.
Expectations over happiness.
And now I was about to bring a child into that?
As I listened to Vivienne reduce something monumental to scheduling conflicts and public perception, I saw the future laid out in front of me like a perfectly set table… a nursery decorated to match the house’s cold aesthetic… a birthday guestlist curated for influence… a child introduced to the world with an identity chosen for them rather than one they could make for themselves.
God, what the hell had I been thinking?
“Are you listening?” Vivienne asked loudly.
“Yeah,” I told her. “I’ll be home tomorrow. I just… yeah, I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“You better be.”
The phone went dead, and I tossed it onto the couch next to me. The silence that followed was thick and unforgiving. I’d spent my whole life walking the path laid out for me. I followed the script like I was supposed to and met expectations before they were ever spoken. Freedom had become an illusion.
Could I do that to an innocent child? Could I take from them all the things that had been taken from me? Could I deny my own child the kind of life I desperately craved? The one where I could have been with Maverick instead of living in a prison.
Fuck, I didn’t know what to do anymore.
Seasons changed, and life continued on. I learned to stop running and claim my space.
Wilde Bay became the home I never believed it could be. I found a quiet, peaceful kind of happiness.
And I learned to let go and move on.
No part of me would ever forget Harley. How could I? I was the man I was because I’d known and loved Harley.
But I stopped clinging to a secret hope for us.
I let myself live.
But I never loved again.
-Maverick, age 36
CHAPTER 73
maverick
