Page 77 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

As we pulled away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Zane still stood there, like a statue forgotten in the square. He clutched those sunflowers, petals glowing gold in the light. He didn't move, just stood there watching my car get smaller and smaller and smaller until it became a blur.

I turned back to face the road ahead.

"You okay?" Ethan's voice came from beside me, tinged with concern.

"I'm fine." But my knuckles were white where I gripped my dress.

Ethan was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "Maybe he could guess."

"What?"

"Guess that he's Lily's—"

My hand tightened. "He's not."

"Mia—"

"He's not," I cut him off, my voice colder than I meant. "A father is someone who stays up all night when she's sick, who builds blocks with her and reads her stories and catches her when she takes her first steps. Not some asshole who doesn't even know his daughter exists."

The car went quiet. Ethan sighed, covering my clenched hand with his. "I'm just worried about you. The look on your face when you saw him—"

"What look?"

"Like you saw a ghost. Like you saw a door you thought was locked forever, and suddenly realized it never was."

I didn't answer. Because he was too damn right, and I hated being seen through.

I closed my eyes, leaned back in my seat, and felt the car's steady motion. Lily had fallen asleep in my arms, her little head resting on my chest, breathing soft and even. Her warmth seeped through the fabric, warming my heart like a tiny hot water bottle.

I thought about five years ago.

When I'd just crawled out of the river, soaked through, teeth chattering, curled up in some strange fisherman's cabin. I didn't know where I was, didn't know what came next, only knew that a tiny life was growing inside me—that man's child, the child of the man who didn't believe me, who used me as a tool, who pushed me toward death.

I'd thought about not keeping the baby.

The thought lasted maybe three days. I was terrified. Terrified that seeing her face would remind me of him, terrified her existence would become a shackle I could never escape, terrified I couldn't love a life that carried his blood.

Then I felt the first kick.

It was late at night, lying on that hard wooden bed in the fisherman's house, staring at cracks in the ceiling. Suddenly, a flutter in my belly—like butterfly wings, like a fish flicking its tail, like a tiny, fragile signal from deep inside my body, telling me: I'm here. I'm alive. I won't give up.

I cried.

That night, I cried for a long time. Not from sadness, but something I couldn't name—like light suddenly appearing in despair, like a drowning person catching a rope, like finding a seedling breaking through barren soil.

I decided to keep her.

The days after were hard. So hard. I had nothing, no one to lean on, pregnant, not even a place to stay. I sang in a dingy tavern for food and shelter, sang until my voice went hoarse, until my feet blistered, sang while drunks threw coins at my feet.

Then I met Ethan.

He showed up at that run-down tavern wearing an expensive-looking navy coat, completely out of place. He ordered a whiskey, sat in the corner, and listened to my entire set.

After the show, he walked up and handed me a business card.

"Your voice is special," he said. "If you're interested, we could talk about working together."

I stared at that card for a long time. Then I looked up and asked, "Do you believe in fate?"