1: Eloise’s POV (The arrival)

I never thought that I would be able to actually find him.

Chicago looked bigger than I’d ever imagined—louder, colder too. I had heard stories of the city but this was nothing close to what I had imagined.

On a different day, I would have taken time out to take a tour but that was not why I had traveled two hours here to do.

The cab pulled away with a hiss, the driver had left me on the curb after I had paid him and drove off while I stood, staring up at the townhouse like it was some kind of fortress.

The windows glowed warm with light, laughter spilling faintly through the walls.

Somewhere inside, he was living his perfect little life, without me. Without knowing I even existed. I wondered if I should leave it that way.

But mom had asked me to come find him.

I tightened my grip on the strap of my duffel, the canvas biting into my shoulder. The slip of paper in my pocket felt heavier than the whole bag.

His name was written across it, messy ink smudged from how many times I’d unfolded and folded it back.

Tristan Walker.

The name my mother had spat like poison on many a drunken night and non sober night. She would curse his name and then mourn him when she thought I wasn't listening.

I had never asked too much questions about him. It hurt her way too much and I thought that I was better off not knowing.

At least, up until now.

My heart pounded against my ribs. My mother’s voice came back to me, raw from that night when she pressed my face in her palms and told me to run:

" Find him,Ellie. But you gotta say that I'm gone! You hear me?! You can't ever look for me again. It's safer this way!! Run!!'

Those were the last words that my mother, Kaylie Perkins had said to me before she dropped me off at the bus station weeks ago.

She was not a great woman, not a great mom either.

She was a lot of things and a liar was one of them. She had asked me to lie that she had died but I prayed that she was not lying about Tristan. She couldn't.

I climbed the steps, each one heavier than the last. I thought about knocking and running before anyone answered, just leaving the paper in the crack of the door.

But my knuckles lifted anyway, and before I could change my mind, I knocked.

The door opened almost at once.

It wasn’t him who answered, but a woman. She was maybe sixty years old, tall and elegant with warm brown skin and a sweep of glossy, grey hair that caught the light.

She smiled at me, the kind of smile people give strangers they don’t think twice about.

“Hi dear,” she said, her voice gentle. “Are you looking for someone?”

I blinked. My mouth felt like it was full of ash. “I—um. Yes.”

Something shifted behind her. A ripple of voices, laughter breaking off. I caught a glimpse over her shoulder: people in suits and dresses, champagne glasses in their hands.

A celebration.

My stomach lurched. I should leave. Now isn't a great time. I'll probably come back tomorrow. Or never.

No. I had to be here. He had to know.

My throat tightened. “I’m here to see Tristan Walker.”

The woman’s smile faltered for just a heartbeat, curiosity flickering in her eyes. She opened the door wider.

“Come in. I’m Marilyn. Are you a student of his?.”

Student? Was he a teacher? Mom never mentioned anything about that.

I stepped inside. Warmth hit me immediately, so different from the night air outside. The living room was full of people, all of them turning to stare at me like I’d just wandered in covered in dirt.

Which, honestly, I probably had.

My jacket was worn, my boots scuffed from the long bus rides.

And then I saw him.

He stood in the middle of the room, tall and broad-shouldered, his suit cut sharp against his frame.

The streaks of gray at his temples caught the light, but it was his eyes that froze me in place—dark and piercing, like they could carve straight through me.

It really was him.

He was holding a small box in his hands. A velvet ring box. The ring on the finger of the other man whom he had his arm around in a loving hold.

My stomach sank as I put the pieces together. He’d just proposed. I’d walked straight into his perfect moment, his perfect life, and smashed it open with my presence.

Wait....he was gay?

Everyone was still staring. My throat closed up. But the words came out anyway.

"Can I help you, kid?" he asked. "We're in the middle of a bit of a celebration."

Yeah, I could clearly see that.

My eyes flickered from the ring on the younger man's finger, to the joy on Tristan's face, then back to the man. The silence in the room had returned, this time heavy and expectant.

Even he looked worried now.

I took a deep breath, and then spoke,my voice cutting through the silence.

"You don't know me," I began, her voice steady and unwavering as I got ready to lay it out. "But you knew my mother, Kaylie Perkins."

His smile completely vanished. The name seemed to suck all the air out of him. So Mom was not lying after all

"I... I knew a Kaylie Perkins, a long time ago. What... what does this have to do with you?" He asked.

"She passed away a few months ago," I said the lie unnerving me. "I've been trying to find you ever since." I added.

Tristan stared at me, his lips parted slightly, unable to form a word. Did he sense what was about to happen?

''I....I'm so sorry'' He began, ''Your mother was a good woman''

I almost laughed. Good woman? yeah right.

"And...Well, I think you're my father”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Tristan didn’t move. His jaw tightened, his grip on the ring box stiffening until I thought it might snap in his hands. He didn't take his eyes off me and neither did his shocked guests.

Eloise, what have you done?

Whispers rippled through the guests. I wished the floor would swallow me. But I forced myself to keep my chin high, the way my mother always told me to when facing wolves.

And that was what they were.

Rich folks who looked down on people like me. Well, screw them and screw Tristan. He abandoned me first so why should I feel any pity for him.

“She told me before she died,” I continued, my voice breaking just slightly.

The lie tasted like acid on my tongue, but I pushed it out anyway. “She told me to find you. That you had a right to know.”

A warm-eyed man near Tristan—slighter, younger, with a face softened by concern—took a cautious step forward. He looked between Tristan and me, his brow furrowing.

“Tristan?” His voice was careful, protective. “What is she talking about?”

I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at any of them.

I held out the photograph, my hand shaking. The one that I had stolen from Mom's closet before she could destroy it when she entered one of her crack induced rage episodes.

Tristan’s eyes locked on it, and the blood drained from his face. The other man leaned in, curious, until his gaze landed on the picture too.

The image said what I hadn’t been able to: my mother in Tristan’s arms, his mouth pressed to her temple, both of them smiling like the world belonged only to them.

Tristan staggered back a step, as though the paper in my hand had burned him.

I met his eyes, refusing to blink, refusing to let him run from this. He had run enough.

“You remember her,'' I closed the distance between us. '

“Don’t you?”