11

Chapter 11

Darcy’s POV

I heard Pink’s screams so I woke up and ran to check in her room but she was not there. Panic crawled on my skin.

Then I decided to check Adrian’s room, the door was slightly ajar, as I froze in the doorway, unable to step inside.

Seeing them together in front of me was one of the most beautiful I had seen in years.

Adrian was sitting up against the silk pillows of her bed.

Pink laid down on her side, as though she belonged to her all along.

The lamp glow softened everything, the dim shiny on Adrian’s hair spilling over her shoulder, the tiny curls on Pink’s head, the quiet rise and fall of their chests as they breathed in unison.

Adrian’s soft hum was heard through the room, a lullaby song. Her hand stroked Pink’s hair with such gentle care.

My chest tightened.

For three years, I had been in Pink's safe place. The one she runs to when nightmares come, when her tiny world feels too heavy. But now, after only a day with Adrian, Pink had found comfort in her arms. It made me feel something sharp, something I couldn’t name.

Memories rushed back uninvited—standing in Adrian’s apartment, the air between us thick with tension. I’d wanted to tell her then. God knows I’d wanted to explain what happened three years ago.

But the words died in my throat.

How could I tell her? How could I say that I was the man who paid for her virginity? That while she was drunk and helpless, I was the one in that hotel room? That I had carried the weight of it ever since? That I had spent every day since then searching for her, not only out of guilt but out of something darker, something I still refused to name?

The secret tore at me constantly. My entire life I had built myself around principles of honor and integrity. I was not my father. I would never use power to take what wasn’t mine. Yet here I was, harboring one truth so dark it threatened to undo me.

The irony was cruel. I had sworn to never become him. And still, I had done exactly what I swore I wouldn’t.

Even if I hadn’t known the whole story then, even if I’d been told she was a willing escort who wanted privacy, the moment I learned the truth I should have confessed

But I didn’t confess.

Because I cared about someone’s opinion. She cares for my daughter. And she loves her.

I, Darcy Rodrigo, the man who built an empire and never cared for what anyone thought. Now I feared not to be hated by a woman who had every reason to despise him.

Adrian shifted for her, adjusting her head on the pillow so that my daughter could rest more comfortably on her bed.

While she moved her hair fell on her shoulder, showing off her neck lines.

The sight sent a jolt of desire through me that it was as sharp as it was unwelcome.

Shame followed immediately after.

Even now, while watching her cradle my daughter—I couldn’t stop my body from betraying me.

I had spent the night thinking of her body and the memory of her bare legs in shorts and now seeing her in silk pajamas clinging to her curves only made my self-control thinner.

Pink stirred, murmuring in her sleep. Adrian reacts instantly not wanting her to wake up: a soft shush, she bent, gave her a kiss to the top of her head. She whispered a word of comfort.The gesture was so natural, so instinctive, that it caught me off guard.

Sighting her neck line, then I remember the birthmark.

A crescent shape just on her left breast. I’d seen it after her interview, and I’d touched it that night three years ago. I traced it with my fingers, memorized it, and dreamed of it.

There was no doubt left. She was the woman from that hotel room. The one I’d been searching for ever since. The one who haunted me.

I must have made a sound, because Adrian looked up. Her gray eyes found mine across the dim room.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped. She looked questioning, maybe worried.

God only knew what she saw in my face. Guilt. Fear. Secrets.

She opened her mouth to speak, but I panicked. Not now. Not with Pink between us. Not with this truth hanging over me like a blade.

I turned and left.

---

The next few days blurred into something both wonderful and torturous.

Adrian slipped into our home as if she’d always belonged. She woke Pink, helped her brush her teeth, and turned breakfast into an adventure. She played games that made Pink laugh until she couldn’t breathe, told stories in a dozen voices, even made cleaning up toys into a game.

Pink bloomed under her care. My quiet daughter became bright and talkative, eager to share every little discovery with Adrian. The nightmares stopped. The laughter returned.

—

In weeks with Adrian, she smiled more than she had in years with me.

And Adrian herself seemed to transform. Around strangers, she kept her guard high—walls built of sharp edges and silence. But with Pink, she melted. She became soft, patient, and endlessly creative. She touched her with quiet talks, distracting her from playing games, and hugged her without hesitation. Watching her with my daughter was like watching something holy. Peaceful.

One afternoon I returned home and found them in the garden. Both were dirt-smudged and glowing with joy.

“Daddy! Look what Adrian taught me!” Pink called, dragging me toward the flower patch they had planted.

“Sunflowers!” she announced with pride. “They’re going to grow taller than me daddy!”

I wanted to inspect them, but pretended to be serious. “That’s incredible, sweetheart. You’re going to be quite the gardener.”

Pink wiggled her fingers. “Adrian says I have magic hands.”

Adrian laughed softly, her gray eyes shining as they met mine. “She really does. Everything she touches grows.”

Her tone was warm and affectionate.

As days passed, I began to crave these moments. I started coming back home to laughter sounding through the halls. Dinners that felt more like family than formality. Pink’s stories, Adrian’s laughter, the easy rhythm that had been missing for years.

And it wasn’t just Pink who was changing. I was too.

At work, I caught myself thinking about Adrian at odd times wondering what she and Pink were doing, if she felt safe, if she was happy. I began coming home earlier, telling myself it was for Pink, though I knew the truth.

It was her.

The way she looked at my daughter, with pure love and it stirred something in me I thought had died long ago.

But then, some night, reality came rushing back

She was not just an ex-convict, she was also a stripper. I'd reminded myself as I stared at the ceiling.

The words should have burned me. Should have made me lock the door between her and my world. But they didn’t. Not when I thought of how she laughed and played with Pink in the garden. Not when I saw her kiss my daughter goodnight.

Still, doubt gnawed at me.

What did I really know about her? Yes, they claimed she had been framed. But the rest? She had taken off her clothes for men, lived in shadows I couldn’t begin to understand. Could I trust her with my daughter?

The thought gripped me suddenly. What if I’m being fooled? What if she’s playing a game?

The scenarios spun out in my head—her pretending, her using us somehow, her hurting Pink. It sounded ridiculous as I thought about them. But the fear stayed.

I told myself she was not to be trusted. Not yet.

The words rang harsh in my mind, though they felt wrong in my heart.

Because when I passed Pink’s room later that night and heard Adrian’s soft voice reading stories, when I saw them curled together under the covers, I couldn’t believe the woman before me was dangerous.

No.

The woman who held my daughter like she was precious, who had brought laughter back into these halls, who looked at Pink as if she hung the stars—she was not a threat.

But I had learned too well that appearances could deceive.

And the stakes were too high for me to be wrong.

So I would keep watching. I would wait.

And I would pray that the feelings growing inside me for Adrian Martinez would not blind me to the only thing that mattered—keeping my daughter safe. I need to know her story at least know who she thinks framed her and if I find out, I will give her justice.