Chapter Ten

It was around 5 p.m. already, the light from the streetlamps mixing with the fading glow of the sun as it streamed softly through the window. I blinked away the last of my tears and straightened my back.

I still had dinner plans with Arzhel.

It felt almost surreal to think about—normalcy, after everything that had just happened. But maybe I needed that. Maybe I needed something else to exist in this world besides grief and rage and the shadows of a past I could never fully outrun.

I moved on autopilot, walking over to the wardrobe and pulling out the yellow sunflower-print dress I hadn’t worn in months. It had thin straps, a soft cinch at the waist, and a flowing skirt that made me feel like summer hadn’t abandoned me completely.

I laid it on the bed, then walked to the mirror.

My eyes were still puffy, but I dabbed some concealer under them, added a light bronzer, a hint of color on my lips. My short hair curled gently around my jawline; I tucked one side behind my ear and sprayed a little mist to hold it in place.

There. Presentable. Like someone who hadn’t spent the last hour sobbing on the floor.

I had just zipped up my dress when Martha burst into the room, holding something small and glittery in her hands. “Mummy! Look! I made this with Auntie Maya at school—it’s a bracelet!”

She held it up proudly: pastel beads, a lopsided heart, and the word “MUM” strung across the middle.

My heart cracked, in that soft, aching way.

“It’s beautiful, baby,” I said, crouching to her level. “I love it.”

She beamed and threw her arms around my neck. Then she pulled back and narrowed her eyes in that little-detective way she always did when she was being nosy.

“Why are you wearing that dress?” she asked. “You look like a flower.”

I laughed gently. “Because I’m going out, darling.”

Her eyes widened. “Where?”

“Just out.”

“With who?”

That stopped me for a second.

She was too sharp for her age. Too observant. Too much like me.

I hesitated. If I said Arzhel’s name, she’d probably mention it to Theo. 

Not even because she meant to—just because she talked a lot when she was excited. And besides, I wasn’t sure she’d understand.

Martha had this perfect picture in her head—this idea of a family where her parents were together, where her world was whole and easy. Any threat to that illusion unsettled her.

And a man taking me to dinner?

That would be a threat.

“I’m just meeting a friend,” I said lightly, adjusting the strap on my dress.

Her brow furrowed. “A girl friend or a boy friend?”

I smiled, tight-lipped. “Just a friend, Martha.”

She crossed her arms, pouted, and gave me the most dramatic sigh. “I don’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“Because. You’re supposed to be here. With me. And Daddy.”

I swallowed hard.

How do you explain to a five year old that her father once shattered you into so many pieces, you’re still finding fragments years later?

You don’t.

Instead, I knelt down and held her face in my hands. “Mummy loves you more than anything. And nothing is going to change that. Not tonight. Not ever.”

She frowned, then leaned in and hugged me again.

“I just want us to be a happy family.”

My throat tightened. I kissed her cheek. “We are a family. And we’re going to be okay. I promise.”

Even if I had to lie to protect her innocence.

Even if I had to keep walking into fire for the rest of my life.

I pulled on a light cardigan, grabbed my purse, and left her watching me from the hallway, the beaded bracelet still clutched in her tiny hand.

If only love could be as simple as glue and string.

But it wasn’t.

Not for me.

I grabbed my bag from the edge of the bed and slipped the car keys inside. The clink of metal felt sharper than it should have—like an alarm bell in my chest. I took one last look at Martha before turning the corner and walking down the stairs.

My heels clicked softly against the wooden floor as I reached the front door. I had just wrapped my fingers around the handle when—

“Where are you going?”

Theo’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

I turned.

He was standing in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight. He looked like he belonged there—like the house hadn’t changed, like the years hadn’t passed, like he had some kind of right to ask that question.

I blinked, slowly. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, taking a step closer. “Where are you going dressed like that?”

My hand tightened around my bag. “It’s none of your business, Theo.”

His brow furrowed, mouth parting like I’d just slapped him. “You’re leaving Martha at home to go out—just like that?”

I took a sharp breath. “I’m going out. Not abandoning her. There’s a difference.”

“With who?” he asked, and there it was—that tone. Possessive. Heavy. Like he thought he still owned parts of me just because he once had the keys to my body.

I straightened my spine. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” His voice dipped lower. “I’m asking a question. As her father—”

“As her father?” I said, cutting him off, stepping forward now. “Or as the man who used her mother like collateral in a debt scheme? Which version of you are we playing tonight, Theo?”

He flinched.

Good.

His mouth opened, then closed again. For once, he had no quick answer. No deflection. No smug comeback.

Just that silence.

But it didn’t last.

He recovered with a slow shake of his head, like I was the one being unreasonable. Like this was just another day, another argument between people who hadn’t spent years burning each other down.

Then, in a tone so casually dismissive it made my skin crawl, he muttered, “Don’t stay out too late.”

I blinked at him.

Simple. Like he had any right to say that. Like we were married. Like I owed him explanations, curfews, or anything at all.

I let out a cold laugh. “What is this? 1952?”

He shrugged, mouth twisting. “Just saying, you’ve got a kid to come home to. Or did playing single mum make you forget that?”

I stared at him.

“You’re unbelievable,” I said quietly.

He stepped forward, eyes dark. “I’m her father, Sofia. You don’t get to act like I’m some stranger now.”

“You are a stranger,” I snapped. “You don’t know what toothpaste she uses. You don’t know her bedtime song. You don’t even know how she likes her toast.”

He scoffed. “So what, I’m not allowed to care? Just because I wasn’t around? And I believe you made me not to be available. I wasn’t around by choice remember?”

I stared at him, my pulse thudding in my ears.

This man. This man had the audacity to stand in my house, with my child upstairs, and twist the narrative like destroyed me and left me to stitch myself back together, one bloody thread at a time.

“I don’t have time for this,” I said, voice clipped. “I’m late.”

I turned toward the door.

“Sofia—”

“No,” I snapped, spinning back to face him for just a second longer. “You don’t get to do this. Not now. Not when I’m finally starting to feel like I have a life again.”

He blinked. “A life that doesn’t include me?”

I laughed, short and sharp. “A life that survived you.”

And with that, I walked out.

I didn’t slam the door—I closed it gently, precisely. Like I was sealing something in. Like if I was quiet enough, maybe the ghosts wouldn’t follow.

Outside, the air was cooler. Crisp against my flushed cheeks.

I clicked the car keys and the lights blinked in response. I climbed into the driver’s seat, my hands trembling slightly as I gripped the wheel. I exhaled and started the engine.

The radio came on—low jazz, soothing and distant. I turned it down.

I checked the mirror.

Eyes clear. Lipstick still intact.

And then I drove.

Away from the house. Away from the wreckage.

Toward something—someone—who hadn’t hurt me.

At least not yet.