RIVAL HEARTS: FORBIDDEN LOVE TRIANGLE

Chapter 5: Confrontation

Evening came by fast.

After a not-so-thrilling day with Marcus Voss, another terror awaited ahead— a bigger one that I had no idea who I was to meet.

I just knew: The Lindgren, 8pm, reservation under Wellington.

No name. No face. Just a number unsaved, claiming to know more than I do.

I exhaled sharply as I got out of the cab. People moved in and out of the restaurant, all dim gold light and low music— the kind of place people would come to relax or cool off after a busy day.

“Uhm…reservation for Wellington.”

The hostess checked her list, smiled, and led me to a table near the back, behind a column.

“Good day.” A waiter came forward bearing the menu in his hands.

“I'm fine; I will just have water,” I replied.

My hands were unsteady. I kept twisting the strap of my bag; my eyes studied the movement of everyone.

Today I was going to figure out the truth. If my father was really telling the truth that I'm not his daughter, or was he just being a coward?

Who would my real father be? How would I find him? Would he even like me, or would he just treat me the same way Tom did?

Minutes stretched into an hour, still nothing. No one had shown up. I checked the entrance every second I heard its sound, but no one moved towards my seat.

I bit into my fingernails. My phone was face-up on the table in case the message came with an update, an apology, anything.

An hour passed.

And another. No message, no show. I tapped my heels against the tiled floor repeatedly.

Ding.

I grabbed my phone in haste.

[Emilia: Hey babe, it's ten, and you aren't back. I'm worried. Call me.]

I'd started rehearsing how stupid I'd feel telling Emilia about this— chasing a stranger's text to a restaurant like some desperate woman in a thriller, waiting on a person who'd never intended to show.

[ I will be home soon. Working late]

It wasn't even a good lie.

I sighed, placing my phone back on the table. Maybe that was the whole point. Maybe someone out there just finds it fun to mess with people.

By 10:15p.m. I was fed up. I grabbed my bag and pulled back my seat.

“Ma'am, your wine.”

“I didn’t order any wine.”

“It's already paid for.”

I gazed around at everyone. Nobody looked like they paid attention to me; they all had a companion—laughing, drinking, eating. “By whom?”

“It was written on a piece of paper and sent to the counter.” He said as he laid the tray down. “And it came with this.”

He pulled out a white envelope from his pocket and placed it next to the wine. My blood went cold. The unknown messenger had been here all along, waiting, testing my patience, until the last minute before they did something.

“Who gave you this order? Don't lie to me.” My voice came out sharper this time around.

“Ma'am, I can't say—”

I snapped back at the waiter; all attention in the restaurant shifted towards me. “Who gave this to you? Talk.” I yelled.

“Please.” I heard my own voice c***k on it, more plea now than demand. “I just need a name.”

The waiter hesitated, glanced toward the door. “They just left.”

The door dinged shut; a woman in a black fur jacket just left. I took the envelope from the table and ran out. People stared at me like a freak, but I didn't care. I couldn't waste my time out here for nothing, just an envelope.

Something in me that had been pleading a second ago just—I was done begging.

I dashed out of the building and followed her. She was a few steps ahead of me, but I ran to catch up with her, and by the time I was close enough.

“You.” I pulled her back by her shoulders. “You stood me up. For hours I had to sit there waiting for you, just to be delivered an envelope. b***h, f**k off, don't text me anymore—”

“What the f**k?”

“Why did you leave this? Confront me directly.” I grabbed her by her arms, squeezing them tight enough that I could feel a bone.

“Have you lost your mind? Get your hands off me—”

“You’ve been texting me since you told me to come here. What were you doing in the restaurant? Talk!”

“Enough.” A masculine voice dragged me from behind.

He held onto her for a moment. People gathered; some walked past.

“This is my fiancé. He just proposed in there.” She pulled out her hand for me to see the engagement ring. “I don't even know you. Get help.” Her fiancé guided her as she threw one last look over her shoulder.

“I'm sorry.” My voice cracked on it. “Firstly, being stood up by an unknown messenger, then embarrassing myself in the restaurant. If that wasn't enough, I had to put on a show in the streets of New York.”

I got a cab and got home. Emilia sat by the kitchen counter scrolling through her phone when I arrived. The moment I saw her, I couldn't hold back anymore; I collapsed in tears into her arms.

I didn't talk, and she didn't force me to.

Later that night, I stood outside on the balcony; the night air did nothing to steady me. The envelope was still in my hands; untouched, unopened.

My fingers traced the edges. What was I doing? I'm chasing a life a stranger is telling me about, or do I just believe I could possibly have that life?

I stared at the envelope for half a second; eventually, I made myself open it.

Inside was a single photograph. Not the one from before — not me at six or seven in front of an unfamiliar building.

This one was way younger. The colours faded into that particular yellow every photo from decades ago seems to settle into.

A group of people stood together, posed the way families pose — a man, two women; my mother and another and two children, a boy and a girl. All of them were smiling in a way that looked practised but not fake.

I studied every face. Not one of them was familiar. Not the man's jaw, not the woman's eyes, not either child's smile.

If this was supposed to be proof of something — my biological father, my real family— it was proof of a family I had absolutely no memory of belonging to.

I turned it over.

You will understand with time.

This felt patient. Almost kind. Which somehow unsettled me more than if it had been threatening outright.

Five strangers smiling up at me from a photograph I had never seen.

I slid the photo back into the envelope and tossed it in the trash.

Someone who'd found out enough about my past to make the details land, enough to make me doubt what I already knew about my own childhood, without actually proving anything at all.

A photo of strangers didn't answer a single question. It just added five new unfamiliar faces to the ones already keeping me up at night.

Whoever was doing this wanted me to chase them, and I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of watching me run.