Page 22

But I realize I may have been wrong.
Maybe Shayla doesn’t have it in her to love Luna more than herself.
After a long day,the argument with Shayla looping in my mind like a bad movie, I arrive at Amelia’s just before five and find her unraveling.
The elevator doors open and I step into her condo, the scent of something buttery and rich filling the space. Comfort food. Underscored by the sharper edge of garlic, it’s the kind of smell that lets you know you’ve walked into a home, not just a house.
Classical music blares from the baby grand in the living room. Not playing, butblaring, as Luna hammers out a dramatic melody with all the enthusiasm of a six-year-old trying to summon a thunderstorm.
Sarah’s voice cuts through from the kitchen, loud and argumentative, locked in a tug-of-war with Amelia about some injustice I can’t fully catch. Probably homework. Or dessert. Or socks. Kids will go to war over any of them.
And then there’s Amelia.
She’s at the stove, one hand clutching a wooden spoon, the other gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her hair is half up, half falling out of its twist, strandssticking to her cheek. Her blouse is untucked on one side of her jeans, her phone wedged between her shoulder and ear, though I can’t tell if anyone’s actually on the other end. Her eyes flick to me, wide and glassy, and in that second, I see her entire brain short-circuiting behind them.
I’ve been here before, but only as far as the living room. That space, like her, has always felt polished to the point of untouchable. Neoclassical perfection with its pale walls, high-end textures, and expensive restraint. But now? The kitchen’s a battlefield. Open cookbooks with sticky tabs jutting out. A pasta box half-torn on the counter. A trail of grated cheese marking territory across the island. Whatever polish I thought lived here all the time is nowhere to be found. And I don’t think she has it in her right now to handle this alone.
She doesn’t even register me fully before I move.
Jacket off. Sleeves up. I’m in her space, my hand closing around the spoon before she can process it.
“I’ve got this,” I murmur.
She looks at me, lips parting, breath catching. “You don’t have to?—”
My look is determined. Steady. Final.
She clamps her mouth shut. A full beat passes. Then she exhales, nods once, and steps back, letting me take charge.
I turn down the heat, stir whatever’s in the pot—some kind of creamy pasta—and open the oven to check on the garlic bread browning inside.
Sarah’s still arguing. Luna’s banging away at the keys like she’s performing for Carnegie Hall. Amelia’s put her phone down and is pacing now, trying to calm Sarah while pressing her fingers to her temples like she can physically push the stress back into her skull.
I glance over at my daughter. “Piano recital or end-of-world score?”
Luna stops playing just long enough to grin at me. “I’m composing a villain theme.”
Of course she is.
Amelia shoots me a look. “Sorry. I told her to turn it down.”
I shake my head. “It suits the mood.”
She stares at me for a second like she can’t figure out whether I’m mocking her or offering grace. “Are you enjoying this?” she asks with a tilt of her head and furrowed brows.
I let my grin curve slowly. “Immensely.”
Her eyes narrow. “That’s cruel.”
“I could have simply grabbed Luna and run. That would have been cruel. I’d say I’m showing mercy.”
She rolls her eyes and goddamn if I don’t like that. “Seriously.” Then a shake of her head. “Men.”
My grin only grows. Earning an eye roll from Amelia feels like an achievement. Not to mention that muttering about men that she’s doing.
And despite the stress still etched in her face, she’s stunning like this. Frustrated, stubborn, and trying to hold her world together with nothing but sheer force of will. I should not want to be the man she leans on.
I grab the garlic bread from the oven and meet her gaze again. “I’d like to point out that this would have burned under your watch.”