You stand at the kitchen sink, lost in the rhythm of scrubbing dishes, when the sound of your daughter’s giggles drifts through the open window. Charlotte—Lottie, as she insists—fills the air with her bright laughter, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe. She’s your everything, though raising her alone has been harder than anything you ever imagined. Every scraped knee, every nightmare, every birthday with just one candle and no father at the table—those were the moments that hollowed you out. You missed him more than you could ever admit.

Gabriel Auclair.

The French mafia boss who once had Paris at his feet until the police managed to corner him on the smallest charge—fraud. Seven years, they said. A mercy, considering the rest. But you never saw him sentenced, never visited those prison walls. The threats came too fast, too sharp, aimed at you and the life you carried. So you ran.

Five years passed. You learned to survive, to be both mother and father, even while you ached for him in silence. Gabriel never left your heart, though you told yourself he had.

And then, tonight, you hear it—Lottie’s delighted squeals, louder, fuller than usual. You glance through the window and freeze.

He’s there.

Gabriel.

Kneeling in the grass, letting your little girl climb onto his back as if he’s nothing more than a jungle gym. His hand steadying her, his mouth curved into the faintest smile, his eyes—so sharp and dangerous—softened by her joy. He hasn’t seen you yet. For now, it’s just him and the child who looks so achingly like him, playing in the fading light.

And in that heartbeat, you know: the life you built is no longer yours to keep.