CHAPTER 15 

Eliora’s POV

The smell of vanilla filled the kitchen, sweet and comforting. Ezra stood on a stool beside me, his small fingers covered in flour as he stirred the bowl with too much energy and too little control.

“Easy, baby,” I said, laughing as flour puffed into the air and settled over both of us like snow.

He grinned up at me — that same crooked smile that could undo every wall I’d ever built. “I’m helping!”

“Yes, you are,” I whispered, brushing a streak of flour from his cheek.

Moments like this made the world feel quiet again. No lies. No cameras. No headlines. Just my little boy and me, baking cookies that would probably come out too hard but would still taste like love.

I’d given Margaret the day off today so I could have this, a few hours that belonged only to us. 

Zoey was out on a shoot, Elijah somewhere on a business trip, and the house finally felt still. For once, there were no meetings, no interviews, no reminders of the chaos waiting just outside these walls.

“Are you excited, baby? Uncle Eliji’s coming back soon.” “Eliji” — that was the special name Ezra had given Elijah months ago.

Ezra’s eyes brightened. “Are you serious, Mummy?”

I smiled. “Very serious.”

He gasped dramatically. “Then can we keep some cookies for him? I want Uncle Eliji to taste my cookie and go—wooow!”

I burst out laughing as he demonstrated his exaggerated “wow” face, nearly knocking the spoon from the bowl. “He’ll definitely go wow, trust me.”

Ezra giggled, humming a tune from his favorite cartoon as he went back to stirring. The sound wrapped around the kitchen like sunlight — soft, innocent, full of life.

And for a moment, I forgot everything.

But memory doesn’t forget you.

It creeps in through the cracks when the world feels too peaceful, when your heart lets its guard down. 

It came rushing back now: the night he was born. The pain. The panic. The terrifying stillness before I heard him cry. The doctor’s voice was urgent, strained saying I might lose him.

My chest tightened as the memory clawed its way up. I could still feel the sterile scent of the hospital room, the cold sweat on my palms, the desperate prayer that slipped past my lips before I even knew I was saying it.

Then the sound — that first tiny cry that shattered everything and rebuilt me all at once. I’d held him close, his fingers no bigger than matchsticks, and I’d whispered a promise only the dark could hear.

“I’ll protect you,” I’d said, voice trembling. “No matter what it costs me.”

And I had. Every lie. Every secret. Every sleepless night. Every decision that made me look heartless — all of it was for him.

“Mommy?”

His small voice pulled me back to the present.

“Yes, baby?”

He hesitated, staring at the spoon in his hand, eyes clouded with a question he didn’t know how to ask. “Why don’t I have a daddy?”

The words hit like a breath I wasn’t ready for.

I froze. The smile slipped before I could stop it. The clock ticked once, twice. It seemed like the longest seconds of my life.

“I… why do you ask?” I managed, trying to keep my voice light.

He shrugged, eyes wide and innocent. “Other kids in school have daddies. They say their daddies take them to the park and buy them ice cream. And their daddies protect their mummies.”

My heart ached in a way no medicine could fix. I crouched down to his level, brushing his curls from his forehead. “Oh, sweetheart… You have me, okay? And that’s enough.”

He nodded slowly, not fully understanding, then pressed his flour-covered palm to my cheek. “You’re the best, Mommy. I don’t need a daddy.”

I smiled — the kind of smile that hurts more than it heals. “And you’re my favorite person in the whole world.”

We finished baking in silence, the oven humming softly in the background. Every now and then, he giggled when he thought I wasn’t looking, sneaking bits of dough into his mouth. 

Later that night, the kitchen smelled of sugar and butter, the cookies a little burnt at the edges but perfect to us. 

Ezra fell asleep on the couch, a cookie still clutched in one hand, crumbs on his lips. I sat beside him, brushing a stray curl from his forehead, watching the soft rhythm of his breathing.

Peace never lasted long for me, but I let myself have this one.

Just one quiet night.

I leaned back against the couch, closing my eyes, letting the sound of his breathing calm the storm inside me.

Then my phone buzzed on the counter.

I groaned. Probably another work call. I almost ignored it until I saw the caller ID.

Unknown number.

The same one from days ago.

The sound sliced through the quiet. I stared at the screen, a strange heaviness crawling into my chest. The call rang out. Silence.

Then, a buzz again. A message this time.

I picked up the phone, thumb hovering before I finally opened it.

“Two and a half years ago, you gave birth to a child, Ezra. But does he know he exists?”

My breath caught. The world tilted.

My phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a dull thud.

For a moment, everything felt distant — the ticking clock, the hum of the refrigerator, even the quiet rise and fall of Ezra’s chest.

Someone knew.

Someone had found out.

I turned toward my sleeping son, my heart pounding so hard it almost drowned out thought. His little fingers twitched as he dreamed, his face peaceful — untouched by the storms waiting outside.

I picked up the phone again, staring at the message as if it might change. It didn’t.

The words glared back, cruel and precise.

I swallowed hard. “Who are you?” I whispered, typing it back with trembling hands.

Three dots blinked once. Then vanished.

Nothing. Only silence.

And in that silence, a realization settled like ice. 

Whoever this was, they didn’t just know about Ezra.

They were watching