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Kayla is sitting at the kitchen table, her math folder open and a pencil gripped in her small hand.

She looks up when the door clicks shut, her brown eyes widening.

"Dad! You're home early."

"Wrapped up sooner than I thought," I say, hanging my coat on the hook by the entryway and loosening my tie.

She tilts her head, studying me with the quiet focus seven-year-olds have when they know an adult isn't completely present. "You look tired."

"Just a long day at the office, sweetheart," I say, walking over to press a kiss to the crown of her head. "How's the homework?"

"Fractions," she sighs, tapping her eraser against a circle divided into fourths. "Ms. Hartley says we need them for baking and measuring, but it's hard."

Hearing Megan's name pulls hard at my chest, but I keep my expression steady.

"Ms. Hartley is right," I tell her, pulling out the wooden chair beside hers. "Show me which one is giving you trouble."

She points to a problem comparing halves and quarters. I lean in, talking her through the steps without taking the pencil from her hand. When she figures out the answer and writes it down, her grin returns.

"See?" I say. "You've got it."

"Can I have twenty minutes of cartoons before bed?"

"Twenty minutes," I agree. "Then shower, teeth, and lights out."

"Deal."

She gathers her papers into her backpack and runs into the family room. A moment later, the TV hums to life.

I sit alone at the kitchen table, listening to the familiar sounds of my home, staring down at the empty wood where her folder had been.

Megan's career is fragile. Kayla's world is stable because I've kept it that way. And I just risked both of those things because I couldn't wait for Megan on her own terms.

At eleven-thirty, long after Kayla is asleep and the house has gone quiet, I sit at my desk in the study.

I unlock my phone and open Veil, going to our existing message thread. I refuse to use her school contact information or cross another boundary to corner her. The private channel we already share is the only place I have any right to reach out, where the choice to answer—or walk away—is entirely hers.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard for five seconds before I type:

I type an apology that admits I wanted her before Veil, handled it wrong, and broke her trust. I tell her that if she wants me gone, I will go—and if she is willing to talk, I'm here.

I read it once, hit send, and set the phone face down on the blotter.

The message is delivered. The choice is hers.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the dark window that looks out over the yard.

If she tells me to walk away, I will keep my distance, respect her professional boundaries, and never bring this up again. But if she gives me an opening—even an inch—I am going to step out into the daylight and prove to her that I meant every word I said in that hotel room.

Chapter Eleven

MEGAN

My phone buzzes on the nightstand at eleven forty-three. I'm still awake, staring at the ceiling of my small bedroom, replaying the confrontation at the Grand Sovereign.

The way Brock looked at me when I told him to leave. The way he left.

I reach for the phone, expecting spam or a notification I don't care about. Instead, I see a text message from him.