Adrian Montrose. Diplomatic credentials. Connected enough to appear on a high-profile defense team. Watching Angelina outside her chambers like she was something he misplaced and expected to find exactly where he left it.
Possession. That look was possession. Not interest, not curiosity. Ownership.
And she froze. The woman who stares down defense attorneys without flinching, who sentences traffickers with ice in her voice, who built a life from whatever wreckage he left behind, she froze.
What did you do to her?
The question burns in my chest all the way home.
The kitchen smells like garlic and rosemary, tomatoes breaking down into sauce on the stove. Angelina stands at the counter, wooden spoon moving in slow circles while evening light slants through the windows.
Normal. Domestic. The kind of scene I watched through windows for years, aching to be part of.
Now I'm here, and she still feels a thousand miles away.
I lean against the doorway where I can see both rooms. Living room to my left. Chesca sprawled on the floor near the coffee table, homework papers scattered around her. Kitchen straight ahead. Angelina is cooking, shoulders less rigid than they were in the car, focused on something she can control.
Cooking as control. She does this when she's stressed. Channels the chaos into something with measurable outcomes.
Chesca looks up from her math worksheet, crayon paused mid-number. "Mr. Cole, do you know what seven times eight is?"
"Fifty-six."
Her eyes narrow with theatrical suspicion. "Are you sure? Because Google said it might be fifty-four."
"Google was wrong."
She giggles, gap-toothed grin lighting up her whole face. "I'm testing you!"
"And how am I doing?"
"Pretty good." She tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that reminds me so much of her mother it aches. "You're fast at math. Are you fast at other things?"
"Sometimes."
"Like what?"
"Chesca." Angelina's voice carries a gentle warning from the stove. "Let Mr. Cole breathe."
"I'm just asking questions, Mom. That's how you learn things." She turns back to me, undeterred. "Do you fight bad guys?"
"Sometimes."
"With swords?"
"Wooden ones. For practice."
Her eyes go wide, like I've just revealed the universe contains dragons and she's demanding to know where they live. The wonder in her face cracks something open in my chest.
She should look at her father like this. She should have someone who—
I stop the thought. Not helpful. Not relevant.
When I glance toward the kitchen, Angelina's wooden spoon has stopped. She's watching us, me and her daughter., with an expression I can't fully read. The tight line of her mouth softens. Her eyes stay on us a beat too long.
Then she catches herself. Turns back to the sauce. The softness gone before I can hold onto it.
You're scared. Not of me, but of Chesca getting attached. Of me leaving again. Of history repeating.