Listen to I Believe by Younha

"Where is he? Where is my son?!!!"

Tristan's eyes bored into mine, dark and intense, like he was trying to read the secrets buried deep beneath my skin. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscles straining, veins snaking up his neck, visible and pulsing with every shallow breath he took. He stood there, waiting, like he expected an answer—like my words were the missing piece to something dangerous.

The silence between us felt thick, charged with an energy that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I could feel the weight of his stare pressing into me, and for a moment, I almost forgot how to breathe. His anger, his frustration, it hung in the air like a storm, thickening the atmosphere with every passing second.

"Don't fucking lie to me, Cassie!" His voice cut through the night like a whip, raw and seething, and the air between us crackled with tension. Tristan was a storm contained within a man—everything about him felt volatile, as if a single spark could ignite everything around us.

I felt my breath catch in my chest, the anger rising in me, pushing all the air out of my lungs. "Don't call me that!" I snapped, my voice shaking, though I wasn't sure if it was from fear or rage. He had a way of making me feel small, even when I didn't want to be.

His eyes darkened, narrowing with intensity that nearly consumed me.

"He is not yours, I told you I'm married!"

"The hell you are!"
He released me and grabbed my hand, he pulled out the fake wedding ring and threw it across the street.

I gasped, my chest tightening, and for a brief moment, I could only stare at him—shock and something else swirling in my veins. My hands were fisted at my sides, knuckles white, heart racing as the full weight of his actions crashed over me.

Tristan stepped closer, his breath ragged, his face a mixture of fury and something more—something that I couldn't bring myself to look at too closely. He wasn't letting me hide anymore.

"Drop the act already," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl, the raw edge of his frustration sharpening every syllable. "I know the truth. Where is he?"

I didn't flinch. I stood tall, straightening my back despite the pain that shot through me from the way he'd pressed me to the car. His grip had left marks on my skin, but that wasn't what hurt the most. The truth was what burned.

"He is not yours, Tristan," I said boldly, my voice unwavering. It was the first time in a long while I'd said it without hesitation. My heart was pounding, and a part of me wanted to run—wanted to push him away—but I stood my ground.

"Stop, don't lie to me," he snarled, the desperation in his voice like a rope tightening around my throat. But I couldn't break.

"How old is he?" Tristan asked, his voice barely a whisper, but it carried all the weight of a question he already knew the answer to.

"None of your business," I snapped, my chest tightening. I knew what he was trying to do—he was trying to break me, trying to find the crack in the wall I'd built between us.

His gaze didn't leave mine, the silence stretching between us, heavy with the unsaid things that both of us knew but were too afraid to face. "The trip to Cuba was to hide the truth, right? You stayed for almost a year." His words were laced with accusation, but also something else—an understanding of just how far I'd gone to keep him in the dark.

I felt my stomach drop. Busted. But how did he know? Had Ryan escaped? Was Tristan following my every move?

"Why do you think he is your son?"
I asked boldly.

The words had barely left his mouth, but I felt the world shift around me. The truth felt too big, too heavy, like it was crushing me from all sides. He was right to ask. In a way, he had every right to question me, to demand answers.

"We have the same birthmark, I saw it beneath his ear at the park."
I opened my mouth to say something but no words came out, I wasn't sure of what to say.

The ground seemed to shift beneath me. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief. I tried to find the words, to piece together a response, but everything felt heavy, too heavy. The silence between us stretched taut, thick with the weight of his revelation.

Tristan's gaze didn't waver. He was waiting for me to react, his expression hard and determined, but underneath, there was something vulnerable, something almost desperate in the way he held my eyes. He was giving me pieces of something—pieces of a truth I wasn't ready to hear.

"Show me," I demanded, a command rather than a request.

He pointed to a spot on his neck—just beneath his jawline, where the skin was smooth and unmarred. His finger was long, the motion casual, like he had nothing to hide, like this truth was as simple as breathing. My breath caught in my throat as I stepped closer to him, heart thumping in my chest.

I had to see it for myself.

I pushed myself up on my tiptoes, trying to get a better look, and there it was—a splash of dark pigment beneath his ear, like a smear of paint, unmistakable against his tanned skin. My fingers trembled at my sides as I stared at it, as the reality of his words began to sink in.

Kayden had it too.

A wave of guilt hit me hard, crashing into my chest like a tidal wave. I should have noticed it earlier—should have seen it. But I hadn't. Instead, I'd been too caught up in my own lies, in the whirlwind of my own decisions.

And then he dropped the final bombshell, his voice almost too soft, too quiet for the gravity of his words.

"And I have the DNA result."
He added.

The world seemed to stop for a second. My breath caught in my throat, my legs suddenly feeling weak beneath me.

"Wait, What?"

"I wanted to be sure he was really mine, so I stole a strand of his hair when I touched it and took it for a DNA test."
I recalled him ruffling Kayden's hair.

My mind reeled. I could almost see it—the memory of him ruffling Kayden's hair, the casual, affectionate gesture that now felt like a hidden betrayal. It was all too much, too overwhelming. The pieces of the puzzle that I'd been ignoring, the questions I'd been too afraid to ask, were suddenly laid bare before me.

"How dare you?!" I shouted, pushing against his chest, my hands shaking with anger, disbelief, and something much darker—hurt, betrayal. My voice was a jagged thing, sharp and unrestrained. "You had no right to do that!"

Tristan didn't move. He didn't flinch. He just stood there, taking my anger without a word, without defending himself. His face remained unreadable, but I saw something flicker in his eyes—a flash of pain, maybe regret, maybe guilt. He was still holding onto the truth, but the way he stood there, letting me push him away, told me everything I needed to know.

I had never seen him like this before. His silence was louder than anything he could have said. It spoke volumes about how far he was willing to go to make me understand.

I stood there, trembling, the distance between us suddenly unbearable. The truth was suffocating me. Kayden was his.

"I'm his father. I have the right to know."

Tristan's words were low, but there was a dark edge to them—a quiet, unshakable certainty that cut through the tension between us. His gaze never left mine, steady and intense, like he was daring me to challenge him further. The air around us felt heavy, like it was waiting for something to break.

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I folded my arms tightly across my chest, as if the movement could shield me from the force of his presence. His anger was like a magnet, pulling at me, making it harder to breathe.

"No, you don't," I shot back, my voice trembling despite myself. "Kayden doesn't need you."

The words left my lips like a blade, sharp and final, but even as I said them, a pang of regret twisted inside me. It wasn't entirely true. I had always known that Kayden deserved more than I was able to give him—more than I was able to protect him from. But this was my choice. I was the one who had kept him away from Tristan.

His jaw tightened, a flicker of something dangerous flashing in his eyes. "He's a Sanchester. You can't change that."

I shook my head, my stomach tightening with a bitter ache. "He's a Simpson," I said, my voice firm now, as I crossed my arms tighter across my body, trying to hold myself together. "That's what's written on his birth certificate." The words felt like a declaration, like a shield I was desperately trying to hold up against the weight of the truth I had hidden for so long.

For a moment, Tristan didn't speak. He just stood there, his gaze flicking to the ground, the lines of his face taut with frustration. And then, as if the words had finally hit him in a way he hadn't expected, he grunted in disbelief.

"Oh, God," he muttered under his breath.

He turned on his heel, stepping back a few paces, as if he couldn't be near me for another second. His hands gripped his hair, pulling at it in frustration, his fingers digging into the dark strands like he was trying to yank the truth out of his own mind. Every movement felt like a struggle, a desperate attempt to hold onto some semblance of control when everything was falling apart around him.

I watched him, my heart aching with a strange mixture of anger and something softer—something I didn't want to feel. He was unraveling, his calm façade cracking piece by piece, and I couldn't look away.

He ran both hands through his hair one last time, his shoulders stiff with tension, before finally facing me again. The anger was still there, but now it was tempered with something else—something that seemed almost... broken. His eyes, dark and stormy, searched mine as if he were trying to understand, trying to find something I wasn't ready to give.

"Why are you doing this? I want to be a part of his life. I lost one child already, don't make me lose another one."
He said calmly.

I wondered what he was going to do when he finds out about the other twin.

"I don't care," I said, my voice cold, a finality in my words. "I plan on raising him alone."

The weight of the statement hung in the air between us, thick with defiance. It wasn't just a declaration of independence—it was a wall I'd built, stone by stone, to keep him out. I had spent so long hiding behind it, afraid of what would happen if I let it come down. But tonight, in the face of Tristan's anger, it felt stronger than ever.

Tristan's gaze darkened, his jaw tightening as if he could barely contain the storm swirling inside him. "Is this your way of punishing me?" he spat, his voice rising with emotion. "Lying to me, telling me you're married, hiding my own son away from me?"

The accusation in his voice hit like a slap, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of doubt. Was it punishment? Maybe. But it was also survival. The thought of him knowing the truth—that Kayden was his—terrified me.

"Call it whatever you want," I shot back, trying to hold onto the anger, to keep him at arm's length. "I'm done having this conversation." I adjusted the strap of my bag, a small, futile gesture to steady myself, and turned to walk away.

But before I could take a single step, his hand shot out, gripping my arm with surprising force. The pressure sent a jolt through me, my heart leaping into my throat. His grip wasn't cruel, but desperate—desperate for something I couldn't give him.

"We're not done yet," Tristan said, his voice rough, a growl beneath the words. "Tell me where he is."

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, my pulse racing. Why wouldn't he just let me go? My mind screamed at me to pull away, to slip free from his touch, but the heat of his palm on my skin kept me rooted to the spot.

"You don't need to know," I whispered, my throat tight. "He's safe."

His grip tightened slightly, his fingers digging into my arm like he was trying to anchor me in place. "He is my son," Tristan said, his voice quiet now, but there was an edge to it, a desperate plea buried deep. "He deserves to know his father."

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to say so many things—things that might make him understand why I had to protect Kayden from this mess we had created. But the words got caught in my throat. Instead, I spoke the only truth I could hold onto right now, even though it felt like a lie.

"He is not complaining, he doesn't need you, besides I don't even see you being a good father."
My last words hit him, he moved away from me nodding his head slowly.

The words hung in the air, a raw accusation. As soon as I said them, I knew it was cruel, unfair. But the hurt in my chest made me lash out. I watched as Tristan's face shifted—his eyes flickered, a fleeting moment of pain flashing before it was quickly replaced by something harder.

"I know you hate me," he said, his words rough, vulnerable in a way that shook me to my core. "But please... don't keep my son away from me. I promise I'll be the best dad one could ever ask for."

I froze. His words felt like a punch to the gut—soft, gentle, and yet they carried a weight that was heavier than anything I had ever expected from him. The anger I had been holding onto suddenly felt so small, so insignificant, in the face of the raw emotion in his voice.

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to let him be the man he was promising to be, but I was terrified. Terrified of what would happen if I allowed him back in. If I allowed him to be a part of Kayden's life, a part of our life. I had spent so long trying to shield both of us from the mess that was Tristan, from the way he made everything feel like it was teetering on the edge of chaos.

But in his eyes, in that single plea, I saw something different. There was no arrogance, no bravado. Just a man stripped bare, raw with regret, with a yearning to make things right.

The harsh voice of Mrs. Porter echoed in my head, as if she were standing right next to me, her warning clear and cold. "If they find out he's a Sanchester, they will do everything in their power to take him away. You might never see him again."

The weight of her words pressed down on me, suffocating me, and for a moment, I thought I might suffocate under the fear of what might happen if I let him get too close. What if he did destroy everything?

"What's your plan now?" I found myself asking, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and bitterness. "Gang up with your family and take him away? That's what you Sanchesters are good at—destroying lives!"

The words felt like fire on my tongue, each one burning through the silence between us, but Tristan didn't flinch.

"Cassie, I would never do that." His voice was so quiet, almost a whisper, but there was something in it—an ache, a sorrow—that cut straight through the storm inside me. "I know we've done awful things to you in the past. I know that. And we're going to live with that for the rest of our lives. But I'm better now. I promise. I can be a good father. I want to feel that joy again."

The vulnerability in his voice, the raw desperation that clung to his every word, made me want to break. To crumble. He looked at me—his intense blue eyes glossy, almost on the edge of breaking down. It was all too much. I should have hated him. Everything in me screamed for me to hate him.

I took a step back, trying to put distance between myself and the chaos in my heart. But the pull of his gaze, the sincerity in his voice, made it harder than I had ever imagined.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, not daring to look at him. "I can't allow you anywhere close to him. Kayden deserves better."

The words hit me like a punch in the stomach. The truth tasted bitter on my tongue, but I had to say them. For his sake. For Kayden's sake.

Tristan didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, looking at me, his eyes never leaving my face. Then, slowly, almost too quietly to hear, he spoke again. "I'll give you some time to think about it. He is my son, Chloe. You can't keep him away from me."

There was a finality in his words, but his face softened, like he knew what I was trying to do—trying to push him away, to lock him out of our lives. And for a moment, I thought he might say something else, something to make me change my mind. But instead, he turned away, his shoulders slumping with resignation.

He opened his car door, the metallic sound sharp in the stillness of the night. He got into his car and slammed the door shut with a force that seemed to echo in the quiet night. The engine roared to life, and for a moment, I stood frozen, my heart pounding in my chest. He sped off, tires screeching as he tore down the road, so fast he almost knocked over the recycling bin on the curb.

I released a deep, shuddering breath and tilted my head back, staring up at the sky. It felt like the whole world was pressing down on me, suffocating me with its weight. Things had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. Tristan was going to tell everyone—Kayden was no longer a secret. And somehow, the revelation felt like it was ripping through everything I'd tried so hard to protect. Why couldn't anything just stay the way it was supposed to? Why did every plan, every decision, seem to unravel at my feet?

Ryan.

The thought of him hit me like a freight train. Ryan. My stomach churned at the reminder of everything he represented. I couldn't bear to think about how much of a burden he'd become. The guilt gnawed at me—he wasn't supposed to be like this. I wasn't supposed to be drowning in this much chaos. And yet, here I was, carrying it all on my shoulders. Alone.

I stumbled home, my mind a blur of questions, and dialed the code to my apartment with shaking fingers. The door clicked open and I stepped inside, my body heavy with exhaustion.

I kicked my shoes off, my bag landing with a soft thud on the rack, the familiar weight of it momentarily grounding me. But then, a chill crawled up my spine.

Vina.

I froze, heart hammering in my chest as I saw her sitting in the living room. She was wearing my burgundy hoodie. It had come from my closet. The realization made the blood in my veins run cold.

"Vina, you're back," I stammered, my voice cracking under the weight of the sudden tension.

She looked up at me, her smile thin, too controlled, too fake—and I saw right through it.

"Oh, hey, Chlo," she said casually, but her eyes—those eyes—were darkened with something that felt like betrayal.

"Hope you don't mind. I decided to borrow this from your closet," she added, her voice dripping with a sharp edge as she emphasized the last word.

A cold sweat broke out on my skin, and I swallowed, trying to gather myself.

"I can explain—"

"No need," she cut me off, her voice trembling slightly, but her anger was clear. "He told me everything. I can't believe it, Chlo. I can't believe you have a son. A two-year-old son!"

The words felt like a slap to my face, the finality in her voice cutting deeper than I ever expected. I had kept this secret from her—the one person who I thought would understand, who I needed to trust. And now everything was crashing down.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, but it felt hollow, useless in the face of her hurt. "I didn't want anyone to know."

"I've been with you, Chloe," she continued, her voice shaking now, the pain in her eyes raw and undeniable. "Right from the start. I trusted you more than my own parents. I believed you when no one else did. And you couldn't tell me? You couldn't trust me with this?"

Her words were a punch to my gut. I wanted to explain, to make her understand, but nothing I could say would make this right. The truth hung between us like a chasm too wide to bridge.

"I'm sorry, Vee," I said again, but it wasn't enough.

She stood up then, her hands trembling as they balled into fists by her sides. The hurt in her expression twisted the knife deeper. "I've done nothing but stick by you, Chlo," she said, voice breaking, the weight of her disappointment heavier than anything she had ever said to me. "I've been loyal to you since we've known each other. And you couldn't even tell me? Not even me?"

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. The last thing I wanted was for her to see me break. But it was getting harder to breathe, harder to keep the walls up when she was looking at me like this, like I had let her down in ways that went beyond the surface.

"I was scared, Vina," I whispered, the words raw and ragged as they tumbled from my lips. "I was terrified of what would happen if people found out. If they knew about Kayden."

Vina's face crumpled. Her breath hitched in her chest and I could see the pain settle in her eyes. It was like I had taken something sacred from her—trust—and crushed it in my hands.

"I just... I just don't get it, Chlo." Her voice broke, a sob escaping as she reached up to wipe the tears that had started to fall. "It breaks my heart just knowing that... you doubted me. Even for a second. I will never do anything to hurt you. And you know that."

I stood there, speechless, as the weight of her words settled over me like a blanket of guilt. She was right. I had doubted her. I had kept her in the dark, kept her away from the one thing that was most important to me. And now, looking at her, I realized how badly I had hurt her in doing so.

Her pain was my fault.

"I'm sorry, Vina," I said again, but this time the words felt like a plea. A cry for forgiveness I knew she might never give.

The words hung between us like smoke, thick and choking, suffocating any chance of easy resolution. Vina stood there, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes blazing with hurt and disbelief. The room was so silent that I could hear the pounding of my own heart, thudding painfully in my ears.

"I wonder what else you're not telling me," she said, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. "You've been lying to me all this time. You even went as far as to kidnap someone. Who the hell are you?"

Her words felt like a slap, each one landing with the sting of betrayal. I had never meant for it to be this way. But the truth was a labyrinth of lies, and each time I tried to step forward, I only found myself deeper in the dark.

"He blackmailed me," I said, my voice hoarse. "I wasn't ready to let anyone know."

Vina scoffed, her lips curling into a bitter smile. "Well, I didn't know I was part of this 'anyone,'" she shot back, her words cutting through the air like daggers.

Her accusation hit me harder than I expected. She was right—she deserved to know. She was my best friend, my sister, my closest confidante. And I had kept this secret from her. I had pushed her away when I should have let her in.

"I'm really sorry," I muttered, but even I could hear how empty it sounded. Sorry for what? Sorry for lying? Sorry for keeping her in the dark while I carried this burden alone? Sorry that it had come to this?

Vina didn't respond. She just stared at me, her eyes welling up, silent tears beginning to pool at the corners. The weight of her gaze felt like an accusation. A hundred unspoken questions hung in the air between us, each one heavier than the last.

She was my sister, my family. And I had shattered her.

"Chloe..." Her voice cracked as she took a step toward me, her hands trembling at her sides. "You're not just my best friend. You're my sister. I love you, and I will never hurt you. I trusted you." She paused, the words coming out in a rush, as though she could barely catch her breath. "So, that was the reason for the vacation? You ran away to hide all this?"

I felt like the ground had been ripped from beneath me, the floor giving way to a chasm of guilt I couldn't escape. I wanted to speak, to explain, to make it better, but the words felt useless. They were nothing compared to the hurt I had caused her.

"I would've been there for you, Chloe," she continued, her voice quieter now, more broken. "I can't even imagine how hard it must've been for you, keeping this all to yourself." She reached up to wipe a tear from her cheek, but it was only the beginning. More followed, each one a silent testament to the pain I had caused.

"You should have said something," she whispered, her voice small, vulnerable. "Two years... all alone?" The words cracked under the weight of her grief, and it was all I could do not to fall apart.

I had been alone. I had kept myself isolated, buried in fear and shame.

"I'm sorry, Vina," I said again, my voice breaking, but it wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough. Not for what I'd done.

She sniffled, and the sound of it broke something inside me. Before I knew it, I was crying too—soft, quiet sobs that I couldn't control, the weight of everything pressing down on my chest. Vina's hurt, her words, they were all too much to bear. I had never wanted to hurt her. Never. But I had. And now, I wasn't sure how to fix it.

Vina reached down and grabbed the duffle bag I hadn't even noticed on the floor. The movement was swift, almost deliberate, as if she were closing off a chapter—one I wasn't ready to end. Her hands were shaking as she slung the bag over her shoulder, and her eyes, red and raw, met mine one last time.

"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper.

"I need a little break from you, after what I just discovered," she said, her words laced with pain. "I'll come back when I feel less hurt and angry."

I didn't stop her as she headed for the door, the soft sniffling sounds trailing behind her. My heart tightened with every step she took away from me. The door swung open, and she paused, glancing over her shoulder.

"And you're welcome, I got rid of the douchebag. He promised he won't bother you or tell anyone your secret."
She slammed the door before I could thank her.

The finality of it hit me like a punch to the gut. I stood there, staring at the door, my body frozen, unsure of what to do next.

"Belvina..." My voice cracked as I whispered her name, but she was already gone. And in that moment, I realized—maybe for the first time—that I wasn't sure if she would come back.

I sank into the couch, burying my face in my palms. The room felt suffocating, the weight of everything crushing me from all sides. How could all of this have happened in one night? I'd lost so much already. I had never wanted to hide Kayden from anyone, least of all Vina. But the secrecy, the fear of what would happen if the truth came out, had twisted me into a corner where every choice felt wrong.

I closed my eyes, and memories rushed in, uninvited.

I remembered the first time I saw Vina, how she had sat alone at the edge of the playground, watching the other kids play but never joining in. She had been so small, so quiet, her eyes filled with confusion and loneliness. She had just immigrated to the U.S. with her family. Her dad had gotten a work visa, and they'd arrived full of hope, only to be met with the cruelty of language barriers and cultural isolation. She couldn't speak a word of English. The kids had laughed at her when she tried to speak, mockingly repeating her broken sentences. I had seen her cry so many times, her face wet with humiliation, feeling so unwanted.

And I had been there, always there, pulling her out of that darkness, teaching her English one word at a time. We had become best friends, no—sisters—through all the awkward silences, the tears, the challenges. I had stood by her when no one else had, and she had done the same for me. How could I have let her down like this? How could I have kept this secret from her for so long?

I stood up, feeling the sudden weight of the silence in the apartment. It was too quiet. Too empty. I walked to my room, almost on autopilot, and there it was. The bed was made. The room smelled like him—like his cologne, his presence—but it was all gone now. His things were gone. I could hardly breathe. Part of me felt relieved. The other part felt hollow, like a missing piece I couldn't put back.

I ran my fingers over the cold sheets, but I couldn't stay there. The questions swirled in my mind, relentless.

Did Tristan deserve to be in Kayden's life? Could I let him? Was I being selfish, or was I protecting my son? And then, there was the one that hurt the most: Would Kayden hate me for keeping him from his father?

I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, numb. Was I making the right decision? I had no answers. All I had was uncertainty, the echo of Vina's words haunting me.

The world felt like it was closing in. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't focus. All I had was a child to protect, a secret too dangerous to keep, and a family—both blood and chosen—that was falling apart before my eyes.

There were moments when the weight of everything pressed down so hard I thought I might break. Days when I wished I could simply disappear, dissolve into the air and be nothing. The pain, that constant ache in my chest, felt like it was woven into my very being, creeping through my veins, settling into my bones. I wanted it to stop. I wanted the sadness to stop—just for a moment, just for a breath.

I gripped the edge of the bed, my knuckles white, as the tears began to fall. They came in heavy, unrelenting waves, blurring my vision, drowning me in a sea of everything I couldn't fix. My chest tightened with each sob, my breaths shallow and ragged. I couldn't breathe. It was like the air had turned thick, too thick to pull into my lungs.

Why me? Why was this my life? Why couldn't I be the person who got a break? The person who wasn't broken inside?

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to stay still. I had to be strong for Kayden. The thought of him kept me tethered to reality, even when everything else was slipping away. He needed me, depended on me, and I couldn't let him down. I couldn't let him see this—this broken version of me. But sometimes, even the strongest intentions weren't enough to hold back the storm inside.

I wanted to give him a better life. I wanted to give him everything. But how? How could I give him everything when I was this fragile, this tangled in lies and fear? Every day I told myself I would keep fighting for him, no matter how much it cost me.

But some days, I didn't know if I had the strength to keep going.

The weight of the secrets—pressed down on me like an anchor around my neck. If he ever found out... if he ever knew the truth, would he hate me? Would he understand why I kept him from his father? Why I chose to hide him away, to protect him from a past that would never let me go? And Tristan... Tristan would never forgive me. Not for what I had done, not for what I was keeping from him.

I lowered myself to the floor, my body shaking with the force of everything I couldn't control anymore. I broke, not quietly, but with the kind of raw sobs that tore through me like a wound reopened. I buried my face in my knees, wrapping my arms around them as if I could hold myself together long enough to stop the tears. But they didn't stop. They just kept coming, relentless.

I hadn't cried like this in so long. The kind of crying that left you hollow, empty, but with a rawness inside you that didn't feel like it would ever heal. It still hurt. The old wounds, the ones I thought had healed, were still there. Still bleeding.

And it felt like it would never stop.

It still hurt.

∆

It had been a day since Vina left, and the silence between us felt suffocating. I could hardly focus at work, my mind a storm of regret and longing. I had been trying to reach her—endlessly calling, texting, desperate to make things right—but she wasn't answering. The silence from her side only amplified my guilt. I wanted to apologize a thousand times, to beg her forgiveness, but I didn't know where to start. How could I ever explain? She didn't deserve to be lied to. She had always been there for me, and I had betrayed that trust. I hated myself for not telling her sooner, for keeping Kayden from her for so long.

The bell above the door chimed, snapping me back to the present. I lifted my eyes from the cash register, plastering on a smile that felt like a mask. The smile froze, however, when I saw her standing there. My mother. My stomach twisted, a wave of dread crashing over me.

"Chloe, please," she said, her voice desperate as she hurried toward the counter.

I turned away, pretending to be busy, telling Winnie I needed a moment, then ducking behind the bathroom door. I stayed there longer than I needed to, trying to steady my breath, trying to escape the weight of everything that had been suffocating me lately. When I finally returned, the space where my mother had been was empty. She was gone.

It was then that Adrian's call came through, the familiar name flashing on my phone screen. I hadn't answered his calls for days. I wasn't ready to deal with him. But now, I had no choice.

"Hey, sorry, I've been busy," I said, my voice flat, trying to sound normal.

"You have a son?" The question hit me like a slap.

I swallowed hard. "I don't want to talk about that right now. Maybe some other time."

"How about tomorrow? I'll drop by."

I hesitated. "Okay."

There was a pause on the other end, and when he spoke again, I could hear the concern in his voice, sharp as a blade. "Chloe, is everything okay?"

I clenched my jaw, fighting back the emotions that were threatening to break through. "No," I admitted in a whisper, the words catching in my throat. I didn't want to cry, not now, not in front of everyone.

"When do you get off?" Adrian's voice softened.

"Ten."

"I'll meet you at your place. I'll be leaving the office late."

"Okay."

I ended the call and tried to shake off the heaviness that had settled over me. The hours dragged on. I plastered a smile on my face for the customers, pretending everything was fine, but inside, I was dying.

By 10:30 p.m., I was off work. The diner was quiet—no customers left, just the hum of the refrigerator and the scrape of the mop against the floor. I should've gone home, but instead, I decided to visit Mrs. Porter. It was time to bring my baby home. Kayden wasn't a secret anymore, and it was about time I started acting like it.

The thought of him filled me with warmth, but also dread. How was I going to balance it all? My job, my son, this life I had barely started to figure out? I wasn't sure I could bring him to the diner. Kayden was a ball of energy, loud and constantly on the move. I didn't think my manager would go for it, and I wasn't sure I was ready to test those waters.

I took the bus to Mrs. Porter's, my mind spinning with a thousand worries, all of them tied to Kayden. The guy sitting next to me tried flirting, but I ignored him. I wasn't interested in anyone. Not right now.

I stopped by a store on the way to pick up one of Kayden's favorite candy bars—something small, something sweet. I could almost picture his face lighting up when he saw it. But as I walked down the street toward Mrs. Porter's, the sound of a police siren made my heart lurch.

A pit formed in my stomach, and I quickened my pace, my steps heavy with dread. As I turned the corner, the sight of three police cars parked outside Mrs. Porter's house stopped me dead in my tracks. Several neighbors were gathered around, whispering in hushed tones, eyes darting toward the flashing lights.

My chest tightened, panic gripping me. I approached slowly, a sense of foreboding crawling up my spine. What had happened? Was Kayden okay? Had something happened to Mrs. Porter?

My mind raced with a thousand terrible possibilities, none of them good. And as I stood there, staring at the scene before me, the world seemed to collapse into a single, crushing thought: Please, no. Not now. Not after everything.

My feet moved faster, the sound of my shoes pounding the pavement like the frantic beat of my heart. I felt the weight of every step, the air thick with dread, a lump in my throat that threatened to choke me. The sirens, the flashing lights—it was all wrong. My gut twisted in tight knots, the growing sense of panic clawing at my insides. I had to get to Mrs. Porter. I had to know if Kayden was okay.

As I neared the crowd gathered outside her house, I saw a woman talking to one of the officers. She was pointing directly at me.

"She is the one," the woman said, her voice sharp, accusing.

My pulse skipped. I froze mid-step, confusion flooding through me. The eyes of the small crowd suddenly shifted toward me—sharp, intense, full of judgment. My breath hitched in my chest.

The officers approached me with purposeful strides, their expressions unreadable, but there was something in their eyes—a hardness, a suspicion. The ground beneath my feet felt unsteady, as if I were about to slip into a chasm of uncertainty.

"What happened? Where is Mrs. Porter?" I asked, my voice coming out rough, unsteady, betraying the fear I was trying to hold back. My gaze darted between the officers, desperate for an answer, for reassurance.

One of the cops turned to the woman who had pointed at me. "You're sure she's the one?" he asked, his voice measured but tight, as if he already knew the answer.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving me. "Yes. She's the only one who visits her."

Another woman, her face streaked with tears, added, her voice trembling, "She was the last person I saw entering her house."

An elderly lady spoke next, her voice shaky but firm, "She was the last one in. I saw her myself."

I could barely process their words, my mind reeling, spinning in confusion. "I—I don't understand," I stammered, trying to keep my footing, my heart hammering so loudly in my chest I thought they might hear it. "What's going on? Where is Mrs. Porter? Is she okay? Where is Kayden?"

Before I could ask another question, one of the officers grabbed my arm, his grip firm, almost too firm. The touch burned through my sleeve, and I flinched, the sudden contact sending a jolt of panic straight to my core.

"Ma'am, we need you to come with us," he said, his voice cold, clinical.

"Wait!" I gasped, struggling to pull my arm away. "What's going on? Is she—?" My throat closed up, the words choking me. I couldn't finish the sentence. I didn't want to finish the sentence.

I tried to focus, tried to piece together what was happening, but everything was a blur—fragments of words, the look in their eyes, the tightening in my chest. My breath came faster now, panic creeping in as I tried to break free from their hold.

"You need to come with us to the station for questioning on the murder of Mrs. Porter."
He said politely.

"Murder? Mrs. Porter is dead?" The words felt foreign, detached, like they didn't belong in my mouth, but they spilled out in a strangled gasp. I stared at the neighbors who had gathered outside, their faces drawn and pale, some holding tissues to their eyes, others whispering in hushed tones.

The realization hit me like a punch to the stomach, but it still didn't seem real. Mrs. Porter—kind, patient, always with a warm smile and a ready hug—was dead? And... how?

I swallowed hard, blinking away the rush of tears that threatened to overtake me. "What happened to Mrs. Porter?" I asked, my voice trembling, as I stepped forward, desperate to get closer to the house.

But before I could take another step, a large officer blocked my way, his hand firm on my arm, pulling me back with an unyielding strength. "You can't go in there," he said, his tone cold, professional.

I pushed against him, panic flooding my veins. Kayden? My heart lurched in my chest, the thought hitting me like a freight train. My little boy—where was he?

"Wait! My son!" I cried out, the words ragged, panicked. I tried to yank free, but the officer's grip tightened, dragging me toward the squad car.

I fought against him, my mind reeling with horrific thoughts, but then I saw it.

Two officers emerged from the front door of the house, pushing a stretcher. They were wheeling a body bag toward the waiting ambulance. The sight of it, so chilling, made my heart drop straight to my stomach.

I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred with tears, the world around me shrinking down to that single, horrifying image: Mrs. Porter's lifeless body being taken away. The overwhelming weight of the moment threatened to crush me. This isn't real. This isn't real. It can't be.

I shook my head, willing myself to wake up. To snap out of the nightmare I was trapped in.

But it wasn't a nightmare. It was reality. And reality was unraveling before my eyes.

"Wait, please!" My voice cracked as I tugged harder at the officer's grip. "Listen to me! I need to be sure my baby is okay. My son. Please." My breath was coming in jagged bursts, my chest tight with fear.

The officer didn't respond right away, but a new voice—one I hadn't noticed until then—spoke up.

"What baby, Miss?" It was another officer, his face shadowed beneath the brim of his cap. His eyes, though, were filled with something I couldn't quite read.

I didn't have time for whatever he was thinking. "A two-year-old," I gasped, struggling to get the words out, my heart pounding in my throat. "Brown hair, blue eyes. He's been living with Mrs. Porter. Please, he has to be okay. Please."

I was losing control of my voice, the panic making it rise higher, faster.

Just then, a tall officer stepped out of the house. His bronze hair was slicked back, and the dark stain on his gloves made my stomach twist violently. The blood—the bloodstain on his gloves—it burned into my mind like a brand, dragging up a thousand dark images.

"Hey, Shawn," the officer holding me back called, his voice tight. The man with the bloodstained gloves looked over at him.

"Yeah?"

"Did you find any child? Or another body?" the officer asked, his voice betraying no emotion, though I could see the faint hint of something dark behind his eyes.

Shawn shook his head, his face set in grim lines. "No, we've checked the whole house."

I felt the floor beneath me tilt, the breath in my chest seizing. No. No. No, no, no.

I tried to move past the officer holding me, but his grip was iron. My feet stumbled, my legs weak as they threatened to give way. "No!" I screamed, the raw, terrified sound tearing through the air.

"No!"
I tried to run to the house but two hands held me back.

"Sorry Miss but there was no baby in the house, you can't go in there either."

"No, no, no."
I shook my head in tears struggling in their arms.

Nooo.

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