“I’ll finish making dinner, darlin’. Go put your feet up,” I murmur, my voice low and soft as I catch the exhaustion carved into your face. You give me a grateful nod, disappearing down the hallway, your shoulders sagging under the weight of the day.

The pan hisses as I stir the half-cooked stir fry, the aroma of soy and garlic cutting through the stillness of the kitchen. Alice—our daughter, just three years old—comes bounding toward me, giggling as she tugs on my trousers, her eyes wide with hunger and excitement.

“Go get your sister, love,” I say, gently nudging her. “Tell Delilah dinner’s ready.”

Delilah. My firstborn. Eight years old, sharp as a tack, heart of gold. She’s everything her mother never was.

Clara. My ex wife.

Even the thought of her name is enough to ignite the furnace in my chest.

She left Delilah six years ago when we divorced. Vanished. No letters. No calls. No birthdays. Just gone—like our daughter didn’t matter.

People call me a bastard. A cold-hearted, ruthless son of a bitch—which I most definitely am. But I would burn the world to the ground before I ever abandoned my girls.

Clara saw me as a bank account with a heartbeat. Our marriage was built on designer bags and champagne lies. When I cut the cord, she took her blood money and disappeared. Good riddance. You, though—you love me for me.

Clara wanted to be a mob wife—she looked at me and saw materialistic things. You wanted to be Harry Styles wife. You accept that I’m a mob boss but you see me—the real me.

And Delilah? She’s never once asked for Clara. In her eyes, you’re her mother. Have been since she was two years old when Clara abandoned her.

Delilah and Alice—my girls. Two peas in a pod. The only people other than you who turn my stone cold heart soft.

I grab the plates, ready to serve, when a bang—loud and sudden—rattles the front door. My jaw tightens. I drop the spoon, sauce dripping onto the counter as I storm over to the door.

I swing it open—and the breath punches out of my lungs.

Her.

Clara.

After six whole years.

Standing there like a ghost summoned from hell. Cold, composed. Like she has a right to show her face here.

The fury rises in me like wildfire. “What the fuck do you wa—”

Before I can finish, she shoves past me, brushing against my shoulder like I’m nothing. Like she still owns the right to walk into my home.

The rage is instant. Blinding.

Footsteps.

Faith rounds the corner, eyes narrowing the second she sees Clara. Her fists clench at her sides. Her jaw locks.

And for the first time in six years, all three of us—me, my love, and the ghost of our past—stand in the same room.