the bigshot's son called me momma

Chapter 1: When Strangers Feel Familiar "Why do I always paint this couple? I don't even know them… or do I? Is there a connection I'm forgetting?" Beyond the chaos and noise of the city, where the hum of traffic turned into the rustling of leaves and the skyline gave way to hills veiled in morning mist, sat a quiet home tucked between dreams and memories. At the heart of this peaceful haven was a room that breathed art. The studio, bathed in soft sunlight pouring through sheer curtains, was a world of its own, unfinished canvases lined the walls, paint-splattered aprons were hung on the hooks, and a cluttered wooden table stood proudly in the center, covered with sketchbooks, brushes, palettes, and half-filled mugs of now-cold tea. In the midst of it stood Mira Cullen. She wasn't painting anymore. Her brush had long since fallen silent, resting beside the canvas she had just completed. Her gaze, however, lingered. The image was striking: a couple standing beneath a blossoming tree, hands interlocked, as if the world beyond them didn't exist. Mira's heart felt oddly tight as she stared at them. Her voice echoed quietly in her head. "Why do I always paint this couple? I don't even know them… or do I? Is there a connection I'm forgetting?" The question wasn't new, it returned with every finished painting, every stroke that ended with the same two figures she had never consciously meant to draw. But this time, the feeling was stronger. Stranger. Just then she heard a familiar voice call out from somewhere down the hall. "Mira! Where are you, my little princess?" She blinked, pulled from her reverie. Her fingers flexed around the edge of the canvas before she called back, "Dad! I'm here, in the studio!" With one last glance at the mysterious couple frozen in oil, she wiped her hands on a worn cloth and stepped out of the room. Warmth greeted her as she entered the living room. Sunlight danced across the lace curtains, casting gentle patterns on the faded couch cushions. Framed photographs lined the shelves, childhood birthdays, beach trips, school recitals, all centered around a man with gentle eyes and an ever-smiling face. Mr. Cullen stood near the kitchen counter with a coffee mug in hand, reading glasses perched on his nose, and an expression that was both stern and soft. "Princess," he said, turning toward her with a smile, "have you given the gallery manager the final list of paintings for the exhibition? He's already tearing his hair out over the arrangements." Mira laughed softly and moved to lean against the back of the couch. "Dad, I sent him the list this morning. Relax, will you? Why are you acting like this is some royal event? It's just an exhibition." Mr. Cullen gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "Just an exhibition? This is your dream, sugar pie! You've been working on your art since you were barely out of diapers. This is the moment the world sees who you are. How can I not be worked up?" She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. "I know, I know. But you've done enough. The manager and I have it all under control. You should sit back and enjoy the moment. Stressing out will only give you more grey hair." He chuckled and hugged her back. "I believe in my daughter, but... I still went over every arrangement myself. Just to make sure." Mira pulled away with a groan. "Dad! That was my job!" "Well, now that it's done, I suppose you can rest," he said, raising an eyebrow. "But don't think I didn't notice you eyeing the spaghetti in the fridge earlier." Mira's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Oh, thank you for reminding me!" And with that, she darted toward the kitchen. "Hey! That's my half! You already ate yours last night!" Mr. Cullen shouted after her, half-laughing. Mira peeked from behind the refrigerator door with a cheeky grin. "Let your daughter eat it. I'll pay in hugs." He shook his head with mock exasperation. "Fine. But next time, I'm stealing your half. No negotiations." "Deal!" she called, already twirling the noodles onto a plate. As she sat at the small kitchen table, happily devouring the food, Mr. Cullen leaned against the doorway and watched her, a soft expression resting on his face. "You used to hate spaghetti, you know," he mused. "Said it was too slippery." She paused mid-bite. "Did I? I don't remember that. I've always loved it, haven't I?" He smiled wistfully. "Whatever you say is true, sugar pie. You're just like your mom in that way." Mira looked up, her expression gentle. "You miss her, don't you?" Mr. Cullen didn't respond immediately. He gazed out the window, where wind gently swayed the garden flowers. "No I don't miss her, we miss someone whom we forget... or someone we can't quite remember. But she is with me, she lives here." He placed a hand over his heart. "Always." Mira stood up and crossed the room to hug him tightly. "You're such a romantic, Dad." "Hey!" he exclaimed, flustered. "I'm your father. Show some shame!" She giggled. "What? What did I say that was shameless?" He rolled his eyes fondly. "Kids these days." As the laughter subsided, Mira's tone shifted slightly. "Dad… after the exhibition, I'll be moving into my new house in the city. It'll be easier for me to handle the gallery from there." The smile on Mr. Cullen's face faltered.