Millie’s back
1591 Words
CALLIE'S POV
If not for Renan, I would've fallen apart years ago.
The day Millie disappeared, a part of me disappeared with her. I checked my phone every morning, afternoon, and night, waiting for a single message. Just one notification. One ping. One sign that she was still breathing somewhere in this world.
Just an "I'm alive." Or "Don't worry." Or "Soon."
But nothing came.
Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Months became years.
And every single year I waited, I kept texting her anyway.
Millie, where are you?
Please tell me you're okay.
I miss you.
I love you.
Please. Just one reply.
I sent birthday messages she never read. Christmas greetings that sat on "delivered" forever. Random thoughts at 2 a.m. when I couldn't sleep because I was terrified she was dead in a ditch somewhere and I'd never know.
The agency moved on. The world moved on. Everyone acted like Millie-Rose Harvey was just another cautionary tale about fame and scandal.
But I couldn't move on.
Renan saw me crying over her countless times. He'd find me staring at old photos on my laptop, mascara streaked down my face, wine glasses empty beside me. He never asked stupid questions like "Why do you care so much?" or "Maybe you should let her go."
He just held me when I couldn't breathe. He listened to every memory, every worry, every fear I couldn't say out loud to anyone else.
He never pressured me. Never judged me. Never made me feel weak for loving someone who'd vanished without a trace.
He just stayed.
Became my anchor. My peace. My "almost" everything.
We weren't official. We weren't unofficial either. We existed in that strange in-between space where we knew what we were from each other, but neither of us dared to name it. Maybe because naming it felt like moving forward, and moving forward felt like giving up on Millie.
But he was the reason I didn't completely give up. The reason I still functioned. Still showed up to work. Still existed as a human being instead of just a shell waiting for her best friend to come home.
And then this morning… I saw it.
A blurry photo on a celebrity gossip blog. A headline that made my coffee cup slip from my hand and shatter on the kitchen floor.
"MILLIE-ROSE HARVEY—SPOTTED IN AMERICA?"
My hands shook as I zoomed the image out. It was grainy, taken from a distance, probably by someone with a phone camera who couldn't believe what they were seeing. But I knew that silhouette. I knew the way she held her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the way she moved through space like she was apologizing for taking up room in it.
It was her.
My Millie.
Alive.
I dropped everything and ran.
Renan, who I'd called immediately, still half-asleep and confused, offered to drive me. "Callie, you're shaking. Let me take you. You're in no state to…"
"I can't wait," I choked out, already grabbing my keys. "I can't. What if she leaves again? What if this is the only chance I get?"
He understood. He always understood.
"Then go," he said softly. "But text me when you get there. Please."
I promised I would, then I was out the door.
I sped through traffic like a maniac, running two red lights and nearly clipping a taxi. My heart pounded so hard I thought I might pass out before I even got there. Every second felt like an eternity. Every stoplight felt like a personal attack.
Please be real. Please be her. Please don't let this be some sick joke.
When I pulled up to the Oslo mansion…Millie's childhood home that I hadn't seen in four years… I didn't even park properly. I just threw the car into park at an angle, left the door open, and ran.
The front door was unlocked.
I burst inside, breathless and frantic, my eyes scanning the foyer.
And then I saw her.
Standing in the living room with her back partially to me, talking to someone I couldn't see yet.
Short hair that used to fall in waves down to her waist. Sharper cheekbones where softness used to be. A navy blue dress that fit her like armor, nothing like the flowing, delicate things she used to wear. She looked taller somehow, though I knew that was impossible. Maybe it was just the way she stood now…like she'd learned to take up space instead of shrinking from it.
She looked stronger. Colder. More beautiful in a way that hurts to look at.
But it was her eyes that broke me.
Same old Millie. My Millie.
Those eyes that used to light up when I'd bring her terrible coffee during late-night shoots. The eyes that cried on my shoulder when her father said something cruel. The eyes that laughed until they watered when we'd stay up too late watching bad movies.
She was here. She was real. She was alive.
I didn't wait. I didn't announce myself. I didn't give her time to prepare.
I just ran.
"Millie!" My voice cracked on her name.
She started to turn, and I threw my arms around her from behind before she could even face me fully.
She stiffened at first…her whole body went rigid like she'd forgotten what a friendly touch felt like. Then, after a heartbeat, she melted into the hug. Her hands came up to grip my arms, and I felt her whole body sag like she'd been holding herself upright for four years and finally had permission to let go.
"Callie," she whispered, and her voice was different too. Rougher. Older. But still hers.
I was sobbing now, ugly crying into her shoulder, not caring who was watching or what they thought.
"You're here," I choked out between gasps. "You came back. Oh my God, you're really here. I thought you were dead, Millie. I thought…I thought I'd never see you again. Why didn't you answer me? I texted every day. Every single day. I missed you. I missed you so much."
My words tumbled out in a messy rush, barely coherent, but I couldn't stop them.
She didn't say anything at first. Just held on tighter.
Then, quietly, almost too quietly: "I know, Callie… I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Her voice broke on the last word, and that was when I knew…whatever she'd been through, wherever she'd been, it had cost her just as much as it cost me.
We stood there for what felt like forever but was probably only seconds, just holding each other like we were the only two people in the world.
Then something tugged on my dress.
Gently. Hesitantly.
I pulled back, wiping my face, and looked down.
A little boy.
He couldn't have been more than four years old, with a mop of dark curls that stuck up in every direction and the most striking golden-hazel eyes I'd ever seen. They were familiar in a way that made my breath catch.
He stared up at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern, his small hand still clutching the fabric of my dress.
"Mama," he whispered, his voice small but clear, "who is she?"
My heart stopped.
Mama.
This was Millie's son.
The baby she'd been pregnant with when she ran.
I opened my mouth but no sound came out.
The boy tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. "Why is she crying?" he asked, then his nose wrinkled slightly, that same expression Millie used to make when she was thinking hard about something. "And why is he…"
His gaze drifted past me, landing on someone behind us.
“…still standing there?"
I turned slowly, following his line of sight.
Braham.
Alpha Braham Gothan stood near the far wall, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. His eyes were locked on Millie, but they flicked briefly to the boy, and something passed over his face… something raw and unguarded that disappeared as quickly as it came.
An electric shock went through me.
Oh.
This was him. This was their son.
The resemblance was unmistakable now that I was looking at it. The eyes. The way the boy held himself, small but somehow commanding. Even the slight furrow in his brow when he was confused.
This child was half Millie, half Alpha.
And he didn't even know it yet.
My mind was still racing, trying to process everything…Millie's return, her son, Braham's presence, the weight of four years of silence…when I heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Mocking.
Then came the sound that made my blood run cold.
A slow clap.
Sharp. Theatrical. Dripping with contempt.
I turned, and my stomach dropped.
Silas.
He leaned against the doorframe like he owned the place, one hand in his pocket, the other still mid-clap. That same smug, self-satisfied smirk I remembered from four years ago plastered across his face.
He looked older. Rougher around the edges. There were shadows under his eyes and a tightness around his mouth that spoke of too many late nights and bad decisions. But that arrogance? That ugly, entitled arrogance?
That hadn't changed at all.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Look who crawled back from the grave."
The room went silent.
Millie's entire body went rigid beside me. I felt her hand squeeze mine so hard it hurt, but I didn't pull away.
- Writer
