Page 334 of Blackwood

My throat tightens. My chest too. He doesn’t rush me. Just watches, patient and still.

“I just…” I blink fast, trying to keep it together. “You’re the only parent I have left. And ever since you saved my life, something changed.”

Roman’s jaw ticks. His gaze drops for half a second, then lifts again, sharper now.

“I know we were texting and calling before, but now it feels different,” I whisper. “Like it’s not just about filling the silence anymore. Every time we talk, it gets more real. More… ours.”

His fingers drum once on the desk, then still.

“Then in Dallas, we actually sat down and talked, really talked. And when it came time to stand up to Javi about switching the dance…” my voice falters. “It was your voice in my head. Your voice gave me the courage.”

The corner of his mouth moves, something between pride and pain.

“You’re the reason I changed that routine. You’re the reason we’re going to Paris, Dad.”

The word slips out before I can stop it.

Roman—Dad—freezes. Like it’s the one thing he never thought he’d hear from me. His eyes go glossy, but he blinks fast, swallowing it down like a man not used to being handed softness.

I take a deep breath and look up at him, our steel eyes locking. “I would love nothing more than to be your daughter.”

His breath is sharp and unguarded. Like the words hit someplace he thought had gone numb. “Really?” he whispers.

I nod, but it’s barely a movement. “Yeah. I mean it. You’ve shown up for me in ways I never thought I’d get again. And I know I’m not ready to give up the Blackwood name… not yet. Not formally. That name is Zeke. It’s who I became because of him. I just, I need more time with that. Is that okay?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Take all the time you need.”

My hands tremble, but I don’t care. I don’t even look at the paper. I stand and walk straight into his arms. He catches me like he’s been waiting his whole life for this very moment.

The sobs hit fast, messy, years in the making. His arms tighten around me, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other wrapped around my back like a shield. He doesn’t say anything. Just holds me. Breathes with me. Kisses the top of my head like it’s instinct.

When I finally pull back, my face is a wreck—mascara smudged, cheeks wet, lips trembling. But his eyes are glassy too, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything he’s never said. He reaches out slowly, thumb brushing a tear from my cheek with a reverence that cracks something wide open in me.

I turn toward the desk. My hands are still shaking. The paper waits, silent and heavy with everything it means. He staysbehind me, breath warm at my back, not pushing, not rushing, just there. Present. Steady.

I pick up the pen. And for a second, I just stare at the line. Then I sign it.

Sharp.

Final.

Mine.

The ink bleeds like a vow. His hand lands on my shoulder, strong and silent.

Something catches my eye on his desk. A photograph framed in gold. A photo of Roman standing beside another man. Tall, lean, and in a NYPD uniform. Grinning. Confident. Familiar.

My stomach drops.

“Who’s this?” I ask, standing slowly, staring at the image.

Roman glances over. “Hmm? Oh. That’s an old friend of mine, Luca. He was my mole inside the NYPD. Had him on the ground looking for you after you were born. Before everything fell apart and the trail went cold. Haven’t seen him in years.”

My mouth goes dry. My vision tunnels.

Emerald eyes.

Dark hair.