His Terms, My Surrender: Unfinished Surrender

Sofia’s POV

“Martha Clarissa Rodriguez Vargas,if you’re not dressed in the next five seconds, I swear—”

A giggle bounced down the hallway before I could finish my very empty threat.

“I can’t find my other sock!” she shouted from her bedroom, which, judging by the sound of her thumping feet and the screech of a drawer, now looked like a war zone.

“You had both socks ten minutes ago!” I snapped, already halfway up the stairs with her packed lunch in one hand and her school blazer in the other. “Don’t make me come in there.”

“You won’t,” she singsonged.

The cheek in that tone. It was always the accent that got me—that crisp, British lilt that made everything sound smarter and sassier than it had any right to be. Like raising a mini royal gremlin with too much attitude and not enough fear.

I threw open her door.

She was standing dead in the middle of the room in her underwear, one sock on, the other nowhere in sight, hair still wild from sleep, and eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Seriously?” I huffed. “What exactly have you accomplished since I told you to get ready twenty minutes ago?”

“I brushed my teeth,” she said proudly. Then added with a grin, “And I danced a bit.”

“Why?”

“’Cause it’s Tuesday,” she said, as if that explained everything. Then she wiggled her hips. “And Tuesdays need jazz.”

I pressed my palm to my forehead. “You’re going to be late.”

She grinned wider. “Fashionably.”

Where did I get this child from?

Sometimes I seriously wondered. She had my eyes, sure, and maybe my chin—but everything else? That drama, that sass, that ability to turn a normal Tuesday morning into a performance? Pure chaos. And definitely not from me.

I crossed my arms. “Okay, Miss Fashionably Late, if you’re not dressed in the next three minutes, no pancakes for you. I’ll eat them myself. All of them.”

Her face dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

She gasped like I’d just threatened world peace. “You promised!”

“I also promised to get you to school on time, and here we are—again—arguing about socks.”

“I’m practically ready!”

“You’re practically in your underwear.”

“I just need a skirt!”

“And your tie. And your shoes. And maybe a brush.”

She groaned dramatically and dove into the pile of clothes on her bed. “This is emotional damage, Mummy. Serious emotional damage.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, smiling despite myself. “You know what’s serious? Me canceling pancake day. That’s what.”

Martha let out a defeated sigh and started throwing on her uniform. “You’re mean.”

“I learned from the best,” I said, heading out of the room. “Now move it.”

A few thumps and a loud crash followed behind me—probably her knocking over something in her rush—but I didn’t go back. I’d learned my lesson. Martha didn’t need help getting ready, she just needed the threat of pancake extinction.

By the time I flipped the last pancake onto her plate in the kitchen, she came flying down the stairs—uniform half-buttoned, socks mismatched, and hair mostly brushed.

“Mummy!” she said, arms wide as she skidded into the kitchen. “Look! I’m ready!”

I glanced up from the pan. “You’re wearing your jumper backwards.”

She looked down, frowned, then tugged it off and spun it around. “Still counts!”

“Barely.”

She slid into her seat at the table and inhaled the smell of pancakes like it was the best perfume ever made.

“Did you put the chocolate chips in?” she asked, voice full of hope.

“Do I ever forget?”

She gave a satisfied little sigh and picked up her fork like a queen about to feast. “I forgive you for being mean earlier.”

“Oh, do you?” I laughed, setting a glass of orange juice in front of her. “How very generous of you.”

She took a bite and closed her eyes dramatically. “You’re lucky I’m so kind.”

I leaned against the counter, arms folded, just watching her—this beautiful, stubborn little girl who somehow made the world feel both louder and lighter all at once.

Her curls bounced with every bite, her legs swinging under the chair, and for a moment—just a moment—I allowed myself to believe this life was ordinary. Safe. Normal.

“Don’t forget your book bag,” I reminded her. “It’s by the door.”

“I packed it last night,” she said through a mouthful of pancake, spraying a crumb or two onto the table. “I’m a responsible lady.”

I raised a brow. “You just called me mean ten minutes ago.”

“Well, yes,” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin like some prim duchess. “But you’re also the best chef in the world, so I had to forgive you. These pancakes are brill.”

“‘Brill,’ huh?” I smirked. “Someone’s been spending too much time with Aire

Martha’s face lit up immediately. “Aire says everything is brill! And lush. And sometimes ‘mad cool.’” She giggled, wiping syrup off her chin. “He also says he’s going to marry me when we’re grown-ups.”

I nearly choked on my tea. “Oh, does he now?”

She nodded proudly. “He said we’d have a treehouse and matching bikes. And a dog named Pancake.”

I blinked. “Let me guess… you came up with the dog’s name?”

She grinned. “Obviously.”

I laughed and ruffled her curls. Aire had been Martha’s best friend since they were both in Year One—loud, funny, full of wild ideas and endless energy. He wore mismatched socks on purpose and called everyone “mate.” I adored him.

“Well,” I said, picking up her empty plate, “if you ever do marry Aire, please make sure you brush your hair on the wedding day.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “You’re so dramatic, Mummy.”

“Says the girl who dances to imaginary jazz and calls breakfast emotional damage.”

She giggled again, hopping off her chair and grabbing her schoolbag. “Ready!”

I gave her a once-over—tie crooked, blazer buttoned wrong, but otherwise dressed. Close enough.

“Let’s go,” I said, slinging my keys into my bag.

But as we walked toward the door, my phone buzzed.

I paused, pulling it from my bag without much thought—probably a school reminder or something from work.

But the moment I saw the screen, my feet stopped moving.

Blocked Number.

One message.

I tapped it open, already frowning.

You think the story is over?

The words were simple. Just six of them. But they hit me like a punch to the chest.

My hand tightened around the phone.

Not a scam. Not spam.

It was intentional.

And worse—it was familiar.

I stared at the message, every part of me suddenly on high alert. My breath came short. My skin prickled. My mind raced back to a time I didn’t dare revisit. Not here. Not now. Not with her watching.

“Mummy?” Martha’s voice was soft now. Curious. She tilted her head up at me, frowning. “Why did you stop?”

I blinked, forcing a breath into my lungs. “It’s nothing, sweetheart.”

Lie.

“Just a weird text.”

Still a lie.