Chapter 3: Five Years Later

—Celeste—

"Mommy, the purple flowers are crying."

I looked up from the inventory sheet I'd been pretending to focus on for the past twenty minutes, my attention immediately drawn to the small figure crouched beside the display of violet orchids. Aria's dark hair—so much like mine, thank God—fell in soft waves around her face as she gently touched one of the drooping petals.

"They're not crying, sweetheart," I said, setting down my clipboard and walking over to her. "They're just thirsty. See how their petals are a little droopy? They need water."

Aria looked up at me with those devastating gray eyes—Killian's eyes, though I'd spent four years pretending not to notice. At four, she was already too perceptive, too intelligent, asking questions that made my chest tight with panic.

"Can I help them feel better?" she asked, her small hands clasped behind her back in that polite way I'd taught her. Always polite, always careful not to touch things without permission. Too well-behaved for a four-year-old, but that's what happened when your mother lived in constant fear of drawing attention.

"Of course." I lifted her onto the step stool beside me and handed her the small watering can we kept behind the counter. "Gentle sprinkles, remember? Like rain."

She nodded solemnly and began misting the orchids with the concentration of a surgeon. Everything Aria did was deliberate, thoughtful—another trait that reminded me painfully of her father. The father she'd never met. The father who didn't even know she existed.

"There," she said, stepping back to admire her work. "Now they're happy again."

"They are indeed." Mrs. Chen—no relation to Marcus, just another refugee from the corporate world who'd found peace in our little corner of Bellingham—emerged from the back room with her arms full of sunflowers. "You have such gentle hands, little one. Just like your mama."

Aria beamed at the compliment, then turned those too-knowing eyes back to me. "Mommy, why don't I have a daddy like the other kids?"

The watering can nearly slipped from my fingers. This was the third time this week she'd asked, and each time it felt like a knife twisting in my chest. At preschool, during playdates, at the grocery store—everywhere we went, Aria was surrounded by families that looked nothing like ours.

"You have me," I said carefully, the same answer I always gave. "And Uncle Marcus when he visits. And Mrs. Chen, and Miss Sarah from the library who reads you stories. You have lots of people who love you."

"But not a daddy." She said it matter-of-factly, without accusation, but it still made me want to curl up in a ball and cry. "Emma's daddy picks her up from school sometimes. And Jake's daddy taught him how to ride a bike. I want someone to teach me how to ride a bike."

"I can teach you how to ride a bike," I said, forcing brightness into my voice. "We'll go to the park this weekend and practice."

Aria nodded, but I could see the question still lingering in her eyes. The question I dreaded most: 'Where is my daddy? Why doesn't he want me?'

How could I explain that her daddy didn't know she existed? That I'd run away before I could tell him, convinced he could never love either of us? How could I tell my beautiful, brilliant daughter that I'd been too much of a coward to fight for what we deserved?

The bell above the shop door chimed, and I was grateful for the distraction until I saw who walked in. A woman in an expensive suit with perfectly styled blonde hair and the kind of confidence that screamed corporate shark.

"Are you Celeste Whitmore?" she asked, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.

My blood turned cold. In five years, no one had used my fake name in that tone—like they knew exactly who I really was.

"I'm sorry, who's asking?" I moved instinctively closer to Aria, my protective instincts flaring.

"Rebecca Morrison, Creative Director at Morrison Event Design." She handed me a business card with flourish. "I have a proposition that I think will interest you."

I glanced at the card, then at Aria, who was watching our interaction with that unsettling intelligence she'd inherited. "Aria, sweetheart, why don't you go help Mrs. Chen arrange those sunflowers?"

"Okay, Mommy." She skipped toward the back room, but I knew she'd be listening. She always was.

"What kind of proposition?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

Rebecca's smile widened. "We're organizing an exclusive gala for one of our most prestigious clients. The event is in Seattle next month, and we're looking for a local florist to handle the arrangements. The budget is... substantial."

She named a figure that made my knees weak. It was more than I made in six months at the flower shop.

"Why me?" I asked suspiciously. "There are plenty of florists in Seattle who could handle something like that."

"Our client was very specific. They requested you personally." Rebecca's eyes glittered with something that made my stomach churn. "Apparently, your reputation precedes you."

*Reputation.* I'd been so careful to stay under the radar, to build a quiet life that wouldn't attract attention. The only people who knew about my work were locals, regular customers who appreciated my arrangements for weddings and funerals and Sunday dinners.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not interested," I said, handing the card back to her. "I don't do corporate events."

"Are you sure?" Rebecca made no move to take the card. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The client specifically asked for Celeste Whitmore. They were quite insistent."

The way she said my fake name made my skin crawl. There was knowledge behind it, recognition that went deeper than a business transaction.

"I said no." I set the card on the counter between us like a barrier. "Thank you for thinking of me, but I have commitments here."

Rebecca's smile never wavered, but something cold flickered in her eyes. "Of course. I understand completely. But just so you know, the client is Hart Enterprises. Killian Hart himself made the request."

The world tilted sideways. The careful life I'd built, the safety I'd created for Aria and myself—all of it crumbled in the space of three words.

Hart Enterprises.

He'd found me.

After five years of running, five years of looking over my shoulder, five years of building a life where Celeste Hart didn't exist—somehow, Killian had found me.

"I... I need to think about it," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Of course." Rebecca's smile was victorious now. "Here's my card. The gala is in three weeks. I'll need an answer by Friday."

She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Oh, and Celeste? Mr. Hart was very specific about wanting to discuss the arrangements in person. He's looking forward to seeing you again."

The door chimed as she left, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. I stood frozen behind the counter, staring at the business card like it might explode.

"Mommy?" Aria's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you okay? You look funny."

I looked down at my daughter—our daughter—and saw Killian's eyes staring back at me with concern. The same gray eyes that had haunted my dreams for five years. The same eyes that would give us away the moment he saw her.

"I'm fine, baby," I lied, scooping her into my arms and holding her tight against my chest. "Everything's fine."

But it wasn't fine. Nothing would ever be fine again.

Killian Hart had found me. And worse—he wanted to see me in person.

The carefully constructed walls I'd built around our life were crumbling, and I could feel the storm coming. The same storm I'd been running from for five years, the one that would destroy everything I'd worked so hard to protect.

I pressed my face into Aria's hair and breathed in her sweet scent—baby shampoo and crayon wax and innocence. My beautiful girl who asked about daddies and watered flowers with the concentration of an artist. My daughter who carried Killian's eyes and his intelligence and his stubborn determination, even though she'd never met him.

'He can't have her,' I thought fiercely. 'He can't have either of us. Not after all this time.'

But even as I made the promise, I knew it was too late. Killian Hart didn't make requests—he made demands. And if he wanted to see me, he'd find a way, whether I agreed to the gala or not.

The only question now was whether I'd face him on my terms or his.

I looked down at Rebecca's business card again, and for the first time in five years, I started planning for war.