A man who once told me he didn’t trust himself around anyone, is caring for my daughter, as if it costs him nothing.As if she’s precious and worth his undivided attention.
And I’m left behind them trying to breathe past the truth curling inside my ribs:
I’m not just in trouble—I might be falling too.
ChapterThirty-Five
Alec
This isn’t how I expected the day to go.
Not that I ever expect much—low expectations are easier to maintain than hope—but I did start the morning planning to avoid Mara and Mila like my life depended on it.
Now?
I’m on the floor of my penthouse, knee-deep in encyclopedias, discussing Greek etymology and emotional sequencing with an eight-year-old who wants me to father her imaginary sibling by June.
I mean.Sure.Why not?It’s not like it takes nine months to procreate a child.If I didn’t know she takes things too literally, I would tell her to wish for a magical baby.That’s an explanation I don’t want to even try to create.
Did I think about it when she asked?
For a second, yeah.Of course I did.My brain is a cursed machine like that—always throwing me full-color daydreams of things I have no business wanting.
Then I reminded myself: first, I have to figure out how to make her mother fall in love with me.Then, maybe, convince myself I won’t screw it up.
And after that?
...maybe a baby.Or two.
Fuck.
Where the hell did that come from?
I blink at the pages in front of me, but they blur.All I can think about is how scarily not terrifying that possibility sounds.
Which probably means I’m in more trouble than I thought.
Mila flips a page like she’s preparing for a midterm.She adjusts her fake glasses—giant plastic frames with no lenses—because apparently, “research mode” has a dress code.
“Who invented love?”she asks like she’s ordering information off a menu.
“There’s no single inventor,” I answer, reaching for a volume with “Mythology” in gold letters across the spine.“It evolved.Human behavior.Biological imperatives.Attachment theory.Rituals.Courtship.There’s psychology.Sociology.Poetry.”
She narrows her eyes.“But someone had to start it.”
Ugh, can’t she just be happy with one answer?
“Okay, so,” I say, pulling the book into my lap like it’s a shield, “the ancient Greeks had different names for different types of love.There was eros for romantic love.Philia for friendship.Agape for universal compassion.And?—”
“Which one makes babies?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and contemplate a nice, long swim in traffic.
“Let’s skip that one for now.”
“You skipped it on purpose,” she accuses.
“I’m allowed to have secrets,” I mutter, flipping pages like I can outpace the interrogation.
