The party was a blur of handshakes, polite smiles, and champagne flutes clinking together. You moved through the crowd, keeping up appearances, but your mind was elsewhere.

You felt him before you saw him.

Callum Hayes had a way of making himself invisible when he wanted to—part of the job, part of why your father had trusted him to keep an eye on you back then. He wasn’t supposed to get too close. But one night, two years ago, he did.

And now, here he was, standing at the edge of the room, watching you like he always had.

He looked the same, maybe a little older, a little sharper. His tie was loose, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—they lingered on you, then dipped lower.

The weight on your hip shifted.

Your daughter had fallen asleep against you, her tiny curls brushing your shoulder, her small hand tucked into the fabric of your dress.

Callum’s grip on his glass tightened.

Neither of you spoke. Not yet.

Then, finally, his voice cut through the noise. “She yours?”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

A slow nod. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “She’s beautiful.”

You braced yourself for the question.

But it never came.

Instead, he exhaled, eyes flicking back to yours. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your fingers tightened around your daughter. “Would it have changed anything?”

Silence stretched between you, thick with everything unspoken.

Then, softer this time—like he already knew the answer—he asked, “Is she mine?”

Your breath caught.

And for the first time in two years, you weren’t sure if you could lie to him.