Page 59 of Hidden Memories

I try to be strong, but my voice cracks slightly. I’ve never felt so low. So worthless. So ashamed of my choices in my life. But I still manage defiance. “My family would hate you as much as I do right now if they knew what you were doing.”

Paul folds his hands together on the table like this meeting is over. “You can burn with all the hate in the world.”

He leans in, voice like a noose tightening around my throat.

“But you will never have my daughter.”

Chapter Fourteen

PRESENT

I try everything.Counting sheep. Box breathing. Body scanning. But nothing is capable of stopping me from wanting to slip downstairs and clear the air with Santi.

I can’t shake the feeling that he thinks I did something to keep us apart. That I had a hand in it.

I shouldn’t care. It’s not relevant anymore. It shouldn’t matter.

Except it does.

The locked chest of my past is something I should leave shut, but every second that ticks by, it splits,the truth clawing to get out. And maybe the worst part? Maybe what scares me the most?

I don’t know if opening it will make things easier or harder.

Seeing him again has proven dangerous. Time hasn’t erased an ounce of his sex appeal, his confidence, his fire—or the good parts of his heart. Knowing he’s stepping in for Owen? That he’s going to raise him, protect him, give him a better life? It’s beautiful. And that would be innocent beauty if I didn’t feel the old pull, the ache of something unfinished. This news only had my body tingling to be closer.

When he had me caged in earlier… if his lips had brushed mine when I was between his arms?

Trouble.

Santi is trouble.

And I don’t want trouble.

I don’t want a man.

I don’t need a man.

Not after Nic. Not after my father. Hell, at one point, I was saying not after Santi.

I sigh. Maybe, in this new life, I’ll learn what love actually is—and know it when I see it.

I have Theo to think about. To protect. To raise into a man a thousand times better than the ones I’ve known.

I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists, annoyed at my overactive brain. This tension. This unfinished business. This war between us. It’ll fade in time. It has to.

But I still want to go downstairs.

I fight it. I do. I force myself to stay in bed, to push the thoughts aside, to be bigger than this. I hold back so forcefully I could grind my teeth into powder.

But in the end, I throw my duvet off, sit up, and put on my bathrobe.

Two seconds later, I’m silently padding down the stairs, my breath tight in my chest, praying the old wood doesn’t creak beneath me.

Santi is awake.

Mila lays on piled up blankets on the floor and lifts her head, alert. Santi sits up on the couch. Turns.

He’s shirtless.

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