Spagetti

Sophia’s lunchbox was half-frozen, but I still stabbed at the salad with my fork. The office felt too bright, too empty for noon. Cutlery clinked in the pantry like distant ghosts.

My phone lay face down on the desk, screen dark. I tapped it once, twice, then let out a sharp breath when Zane Romano’s name still did not show up.

That man, damn him.

I had called three times. Three. All I got was voicemail and a rising pulse.

“Why do you look like you swallowed a whiteboard eraser?” Sophia appeared in the doorway with a coffee in hand.

I hissed. “Because someone decided to play instant dad and ignore my calls.”

Her smile thinned. “He’s still with—”

“With Ash,” I cut in.

Just saying it made my stomach clamp.

I dropped my fork and propped my chin on my hand. “Maritza said they went out. In his damn car. You know what Zane said? He said he would ‘handle it.’ Do you know what that means when he says that? It means he’s kidnapping my kid in a very elegant way.”

Sophia sat opposite me, looking