Chapter Three

Time passed.

The soft hum of the radio, the quiet scratch of brushes, the distant sounds of traffic outside—it all blurred together as the hours slipped by.

By the time I checked the clock again, it was 3:00 p.m.

Time to pick up Martha.

I looked down at the canvas in front of me. Swirls of color, soft edges, blurred lines. But no meaning. No story. Just noise.

I’d been painting for hours, but nothing made sense. My mind had been elsewhere the whole time.

With a quiet sigh, I set the brush down and stepped back.

“Lily,” I called gently.

She poked her head out from the back room, a roll of paper towels in one hand and blue paint streaked across her arm. “Yeah?”

“You can close up early today. I’m heading out to pick up Martha.”

Her brow lifted, but she just nodded. “Sure thing. Want me to lock up?”

“Please. Thank you.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow?”

I nodded and offered a faint smile. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

I slipped off my apron, grabbed my bag, and made my way out the door. The cool afternoon air met me as I stepped outside, the sun dipping lower behind the buildings.

Sliding into my car, I started the engine.

Time to get my girl.

Thirty minutes later, I pulled up in front of Martha’s school.

The gates had just opened, and children were spilling out in every direction—laughing, shouting, waving goodbye to teachers. I scanned the crowd, searching for her small frame.

Then I saw her.

“Mummy!!”

Martha ran straight at me, her curls bouncing, her arms wide like she was about to take off. I opened my arms just in time to catch her.

“There’s my girl,” I said, hugging her tight.

She smelled like crayons, glue, and a little bit of sunshine.

As we started walking toward the car, her little hand in mine, she suddenly stopped.

“Oh! Wait!” she gasped. “I forgot my color pencil!”

I turned to her. “You forgot it?”

She nodded quickly. “With Aire! I let him borrow it for art class.”

Martha turned and ran back toward the building, calling out for Aire. I watched her weave through the other kids with ease, her voice light and cheerful as ever.

A moment later, I saw him.

Aire.

He was standing at the top of the steps, holding what looked like Martha’s color pencil in his hand. His school bag hung loosely on one shoulder, and his dark hair fell over his forehead in soft waves. His smile was wide when he spotted her.

Then he looked past Martha—and saw me.

His whole face lit up.

“Mummy!” he shouted, and my heart squeezed.

He came running too, one arm still holding the pencil, the other swinging by his side. When he reached me, he stopped just short and looked up with big, expectant eyes.

“Hi, Mummy.”

I knelt down slowly, brushing a hand gently over his dark hair. “Hello, sweetheart.”

His voice, his eyes, the way he hugged me without thinking—it always caught me off guard. Because Aire wasn’t mine.

But somehow, in his young heart, I was.

His mother hadn’t been in the picture for a long time, and in his little mind, I had filled that space. I never asked to—but I never turned him away either.

And his father… Arzhel.

Arzhel had always been distant with his son. He was the kind of man who wore silence like armor—cold, sharp, unreadable. A businessman to the bone. His world revolved around numbers, deals, and power—not bedtime stories or art projects.

It broke my heart how often Aire had to look elsewhere for warmth.

And every time he reached for my hand or called me “Mummy,” a part of me ached with something deeper.

Something more.

It felt like… God had sent me my missing piece.

The piece I’d lost the day Martha’s twin brother died at birth.

I hadn’t spoken his name in years.

But every time Aire looked at me like this, with so much love and trust, it felt like my son—the one I never got to know was somehow still here.

Alive in this boy’s laughter. In his stories. In his hugs.

Martha reached us then and took the pencil from Aire’s hand, giving him a quick hug.

Aire suddenly looked down, his lower lip trembling. “Mummy,” he whispered, his voice small, “can I follow you and Martha home? Please?”

My heart tightened. “What about your daddy, sweetheart?”

He wiped at his eyes, trying to be brave. “He’s not coming. The driver is. But I don’t wanna follow him. I wanna go with you, Mummy.”

I knelt down to his level. “Okay,” I said gently. “I’ll take you home. But let me call your daddy first, alright?”

He nodded quickly, clinging to my hand.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Arzhel’s number. It rang a few times before he answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Arzhel. It’s Sofia,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “Just letting you know, I’ll drop Aire off at the house. His driver doesn’t need to pick him up today.”

There was a short pause, then Arzhel replied, “Thank you, Sofia. I appreciate it. I’ll be tied up with work for a while. I’ll see him later.”

“No problem. Take care,” I said and ended the call.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and looked over at Aire, who was already chatting away with Martha like nothing had happened.

Arzhel Whitmore was a man of great success. He owned Whitmore Art House, the biggest painting studio in Manchester. He had helped me a lot when I was starting mine—gave advice, offered space, even connected me with suppliers. But when it came to being a father, he kept his heart locked behind business meetings and cold routines.

Aire never said it, but I could see it in the way he looked at other dads at school. The way his shoulders dropped when he was the last to be picked up. The way he clung to me.

The drive took about forty-five minutes, passing quiet streets lined with large homes and tall trees. Aire sat quietly in the back seat, gazing out the window, while Martha talked and talked—about her art class, about lunch, and how someone put ketchup on their cupcake by mistake.

As we neared the Whitmore estate, the big black gates came into view. Behind them, the house stood tall and beautiful, surrounded by green lawns and trimmed hedges. It looked like something out of a movie.

As I pulled up to the driveway, the gates opened slowly. A guard was already waiting. He stood straight, hands behind his back, and gave a polite nod.

“Master Aire,” the guard greeted.

Martha, who was sitting beside me, frowned. Her small voice piped up, “I don’t get it, Mummy. Why do they call him Master Aire? He’s not a king.”

I smiled, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “It’s just a polite way of speaking, honey. It means respect.”

She crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Well, I don’t like it. I want to be called Queen Martha then.”

Aire giggled, the sadness from earlier already gone. “You’d be a funny queen.”

Martha stuck out her tongue at him, and they both laughed.

I shook my head, smiling. “Alright, Your Majesty. Let’s drop Prince Aire off properly.”

We walked Aire up to the front steps, his small hand tucked inside mine while Martha bounced beside us, still proudly calling herself Queen Martha. The guard opened the door with a small bow, stepping aside to let us pass.

“Thanks for the ride, Mummy,” Aire said, hugging my waist tight.

I crouched down, brushing his hair from his face. “Anytime, sweetheart. Be good, okay?”

He nodded and leaned into me again, as if he didn’t want to let go. I held him just a moment longer before gently pulling away.

“See you at school tomorrow,” Martha said, giving him a quick high-five.

Aire grinned. “Bye, Queen Martha.”

We turned and headed back to the car. I watched in the mirror as the front door closed behind him.

The drive home was quieter. Martha had used up most of her words for the day and now sat quietly, humming a made-up tune while kicking her shoes against the back of the seat.

By the time we pulled into our driveway, it was just after four.

That’s when I noticed it.

The front door.

Open.

A small crack—barely visible, but enough.

I stopped the car. My heart thudded once.

No. I know I locked it this morning.

“Mummy?” Martha’s voice was small.

I forced a calm tone. “Stay in the car, sweetheart.”

I grabbed my keys and scanned the area. Nothing looked broken. Nothing looked forced. Still… I knew something was wrong.

I slipped into the house, every step cautious. I grabbed the first thing I could find by the door—a metal umbrella—and held it like a weapon.

“Martha,” I whispered behind me, “stay close but stay behind me.”

She nodded, eyes wide.

We moved through the hallway slowly, my grip tight on the umbrella.

The air inside felt different. Thicker.

I turned the corner into the living room—and stopped cold.

There he was.

Sitting calmly, like he belonged there.

Like five years hadn’t passed.

I couldn’t move.

He looked up at me. His face hadn’t changed.

Only his eyes.

“Sofia,” he said.

My heart dropped.

And everything stopped.