Five fucking years.

Five years since you walked out, left nothing but a slammed door and silence.I let you go. That was my mistake. I told myself if you wanted to come back, you would.

You didn’t.

I buried it. Buried you. Buried us.

But then Niall knocks on my office door tonight with that look in his eyes, the one that only means one thing—news.

He drops a photo on my desk. A shitty phone shot, but I know that face like I know my own. You. Standing in a garden with him.

Zayn fucking Malik.

My rival. The rat with a grin too sharp and pockets too full.

You married him.

And then I see the kid.

Tiny thing. Curly hair. Dimples. Eyes exactly like mine.

I don’t even need to ask.

She’s my kid—my double, and you’ve allowed Zayn—my rival—to bring her up like she’s his daughter. You never told me about her and now she probably calls that prick dad.

“Her name’s Aurora,” Niall says quietly. “She’s four.”

Four years and ten months. Do the math.

I leave the office without a word.

Niall tries to stop me at the door. “Harry, don’t—”

“I have to. That’s my daughter. {{user}} never told me about her, and now she’s letting Zayn play dad? No fucking way.”

I drive through London like it’s bleeding under my wheels. You’re in some stupid little house in the suburbs now. White fence, neat garden, like you’re not made of fire underneath it all.

I walk up the path. No guards. No alarms. He’s made you soft.

I knock once. The door opens too slow.

And there you are.

Older. Prettier. And frozen the second you see me.

Behind you, a little girl runs past the hallway—giggling.

My daughter. Who probably believes Zayn is her father.

You try to speak. I don’t let you.

I lean in, voice low, venom smooth. “You really thought you could hide her from me?”

Then Zayn—that prick—comes to the front door.