Page 231 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

Sophia beams, adding a pinch to the pot. “This is my grandmother’s recipe. One of the few things from my old life I’ve managed to hold onto.”

The simple statement hangs between us—a reminder that everyone in this room carries ghosts, memories of lives disrupted or destroyed. Yet here we are, making new memories, forging connections from the ashes of what we’ve lost.

A crash from the living room makes us both jump, followed immediately by a sharp yelp and Zephyr’s angry voice.

“I told you no stomping!” The seven-year-old is not thrilled, but I like her style. She’s going to be fierce someday.

The sound of quick footsteps across the hardwood comes first—then Zephyr barrels into the kitchen, wild curls bouncing, her eyes flashing with indignation. She’s nearly seven now, all knees and elbows and stormy opinions.

Close behind is Luke, Sophia’s five-year-old, his brows drawn low, mouth twisted in frustration.

“I didn’t mean to break it,” he mutters, arms crossing tightly. “My foot went the wrong way.”

“Even accidents deserve apologies,” Sophia says gently, crouching to his level with a towel still in her hands.

Luke shifts from foot to foot, stealing a glance at Zephyr. “Sorry I knocked it down. Want to build a bigger one? Like, way taller than the couch?”

Zephyr considers him with narrowed eyes—already calculating structural reinforcements and aesthetic improvements—but then nods, relenting.

“Fine. But I get to do the base this time. And no stomping.”

The simple exchange—the learning of empathy, the offering of reconciliation—strikes me with unexpected weight. These children, born into danger and delivered from darkness, are beingraised with intention, shaped by protectors who teach them both courage and kindness.

“Dinner in ten,” Jenna announces, sliding a tray of garlic bread into the oven. “Ally, could you help Malia with the salad?”

Max follows me around the kitchen, his soulful eyes tracking my every move, clearly hoping I might drop something edible. His constant presence is comforting—another layer of protection in an already secure building.

“Any word from the guys?” Rebel asks, joining us in the kitchen to grab more napkins.

“Radio silence,” I admit, trying to keep my voice neutral despite the knot of worry tightening in my stomach. “Whatever that emergency call was about, it’s keeping them busy.”

A momentary shadow passes over the room—the shared anxiety of loving men whose jobs routinely put them in danger. Then Malia claps her hands, dispelling the tension.

“No sad faces tonight. This is strictly a girls-plus-adorable-children night. The guys can fend for themselves.”

We carry dishes to the table, the simple act of serving food bringing a sense of normalcy that feels increasingly precious. The conversation flows naturally—Mia sharing stories about a research breakthrough at the lab, Rebel describing her latest sparring match with Ethan, Sophia updating us on Luke’s newest obsession with firetrucks.

“To Charlie’s Angels,” Malia declares, raising her wine glass in a toast. “The most badass support system a girl could ask for.”

“To survival,” Sophia adds, her eyes momentarily distant before focusing again. “And finding family in unexpected places.”

We clink glasses, the simple ritual sealing something profound between us. I look around the table—at these women who were strangers mere months ago and are now essential to my sanity—and feel a surge of gratitude so intense it nearly brings tears to my eyes.

“Speaking of unexpected,” I say, setting down my glass, “I got the date for my thesis defense. One week from today.”

Cheers erupt around the table, Malia reaching over to squeeze my hand.

“Our resident genius is going to blow them away,” she declares with absolute confidence. “Finally, Miss Alexandra Collins will be Dr. Collins, quantum physics whatever-whatever, extraordinaire.”

“Dr. Ally Collins,” Jenna says, testing the title. “Has a nice ring to it.”

“I’ll have to make a special coffee drink to commemorate the occasion,” Malia adds. “Something with quantum in the name. Extra espresso, obviously.”

The warm tide of their support washes over me, momentarily easing the anxiety that has been my constant companion since the kidnapping. With these women—these survivors—I can almost believe that a normal life is possible again, that the shadow of Malfor doesn’t stretch quite so far.

After dinner, we migrate to the living room, the children already in pajamas and clutching stuffed animals as we debate movie options.

“Nothing with explosions,” Rebel insists, claiming a corner of the sofa. “I get enough of that at work.”

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