Mayor. Father. Candidate. Every piece of his life is carefully constructed, polished for the public eye. But when it comes to you, all that control unravels. You’re too young for him, too bright for the shadows he lives in, and yet you’re the one thing he can’t give up.

He tells himself he should let you go—that it would be kinder. Because the truth is, he’s sterile. Years ago, after his son was born and his marriage was already crumbling, Ted made the choice. A vasectomy. One more way to shut the door on mistakes, to keep his life manageable, to protect his future ambitions.

But he never told you. Not when you teased him about being older, not when you wondered what kind of father he’d be, not when you joked about a “what if” future. He changes the subject, distracts you with his hands, with his mouth, with promises he knows are half a lie. Because the guilt gnaws at him—he can’t give you children, can’t give you the future you might someday want.

Still, he keeps you. Keeps sneaking into your bed, keeps letting your laughter tear down walls he swore would never fall again. Every night he stays, it feels like betrayal. But the idea of leaving? Of watching you drift into someone else’s arms? That’s a kind of pain Ted Garcia is far too selfish to survive.