Four
1139 Words
Nick’s POV
I didn’t get a single thing done after she walked out of that room.
My laptop stayed open on my desk, emails stacking up one after the other, and I didn’t read a single one. My assistant popped in twice to remind me about meetings, and I nodded, but I couldn’t have told you what was said if my life depended on it.
All I kept hearing was her voice.
“You don’t know a damn thing about what happened.”
The words hit harder than I wanted to admit. Chelsea hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t lowered her eyes or apologized. She’d looked right at me, strong as steel, and said it like she believed it.
And the worst part?
Somewhere deep in my chest, I felt it too. Felt the weight behind her words.
For three years I’d lived off the version of the story everyone else fed me: Chelsea ran. Chelsea took the money. Chelsea filed for divorce when I wasn’t even awake to defend myself.
I swallowed that version like medicine, bitter but steady.
But now… now I wasn’t sure.
The way her voice cracked when she said you were already gone—that wasn’t performance. That was pain.
And yet, pain didn’t erase betrayal.
It didn’t erase the fact that I’d come home to an empty house, an empty marriage, an empty life.
Still, she shook me. Enough that when Isabella’s assistant reminded me about the foundation gala that night, I didn’t even argue. A distraction sounded like exactly what I needed, even if it meant drowning in fake smiles and press cameras.
The gala was at the Lavigne Museum. Glass ceiling, marble floors, priceless art lit up under soft lights. Money and power in gowns and tuxes.
The moment I stepped out of the car, flashes exploded. Cameras aimed straight at me. I straightened my tie and gave them a small nod—just enough to feed them without giving them anything real.
Inside, Isabella was waiting, of course. My mother always made an entrance. Her red dress shimmered like fire under the lights, and her diamonds caught every flash of the camera. She kissed my cheek with painted lips and whispered in Italian, “You look tired, figlio mio. Rough day?”
I didn’t answer. She didn’t actually care.
She looped her arm through mine and paraded me across the room like I was another one of her trophies, polished and gleaming for the world to admire.
It didn’t take long before another ghost appeared.
“Nick.”
I turned, already bracing myself.
Celeste Rowan. Fashion heiress. My ex-fiancée—the one before Chelsea blew every plan to pieces.
She looked the same. Perfect blonde curls, diamonds heavy on her neck, a smile that was just a little too sharp.
“Celeste,” I said, keeping my tone flat.
She leaned in, kissed both my cheeks like we were still playing at being Europe’s golden couple, and smiled like she knew something I didn’t. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here, but I had a feeling.” Her hand brushed down my arm. “You’ve been hard to reach.”
“I’ve been busy,” I replied.
Her pout was practiced, her voice sugar-sweet. “Busy reliving the past?”
My brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
She laughed, light but sharp enough to cut. “Oh, Nick. You didn’t think I’d hear? The infamous Chelsea Dawson is back in your orbit. She’s not exactly subtle.”
I clenched my jaw. “It’s business.”
“Of course,” she said, sipping her champagne. “Just business. That’s what you told me once too.”
I didn’t respond. There was nothing worth saying. I left her standing there, heels clicking behind me as I walked away.
I needed space. Air. Anything real.
The balcony doors opened onto a quiet terrace overlooking the museum’s front entrance. The city lights glittered in the distance, stars swallowed by skyscrapers and traffic.
And that’s when I saw her.
Chelsea.
She was standing by the valet line, shoulders slightly hunched, her hand rubbing at her arm like she was cold. She didn’t see me.
For the first time all day, she didn’t look like the composed, polished woman who’d walked into my boardroom. She looked tired. Human.
But she wasn’t alone.
Beside her was a little girl.
She couldn’t have been more than three, maybe four. Soft brown curls framed her small face. She wore a tiny pink coat and sparkly shoes, clutching a stuffed bunny in one hand.
She bounced on her toes, humming something to herself as she waited.
I froze.
The girl tugged on Chelsea’s sleeve. “Mama,” she said softly, pointing toward the street where cars were pulling up.
Mama.
The sound made my chest tighten until it hurt.
Before I could move, the bunny slipped from the girl’s hand and rolled toward the curb.
Instinct overrode thought. I stepped forward quickly, bent down, and picked it up before it hit the street.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” I said quietly, handing it back.
The girl looked up at me.
And I stopped breathing.
Her eyes.
They were mine.
The same deep hazel, the same golden flecks in the iris. The curve of her mouth, the slope of her chin—I knew them.
I’d seen that face before. In photographs. In mirrors. In myself when I was her age.
My stomach dropped to the floor.
Chelsea spun around then, eyes widening with something that looked like panic—or maybe fear.
“Thank you,” she said quickly, reaching for the toy with a hand that trembled just enough for me to notice.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
“Yours?” I asked, my voice low, tight.
She hesitated. Just for a second. But it was enough. Her hand closed around the girl’s shoulder protectively.
“We were just leaving,” she said.
I stepped in front of her. “She called you Mama.”
“She’s tired.”
“She has my face.”
Chelsea stiffened. “Not here.”
“Chelsea…”
She grabbed the girl’s hand and started walking toward the curb, her heels clicking fast against the pavement.
I didn’t follow. I just stood there, frozen, my pulse hammering in my ears.
The little girl glanced back, clutching her bunny tight. Our eyes met for one brief second.
And then they were gone.
I stayed out there a long time after they left, staring at the empty sidewalk. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
My mind raced, trying to shove the pieces into place.
A child.
Her child.
Our child?
No. That wasn’t possible.
Was it?
I whispered into the cold night air, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.
“That’s not possible… is it?”
- Writer
