Page 63 of Second Chance Daddy
Aria has my eyes, copy-fucking-pasted.
Not just the color. The shape. The fire. The fucking blueprint of my blood staring back at me from another lifetime.
She’s mine—has to be.
But that’s not enough—I need to be sure.
17
DANTE
The thing about doubt? It creeps in slowly.
It doesn’t knock on the front door. It slithers in through the cracks—underneath the floorboards, behind your ribs, wrapping itself around your throat so tight you don’t realize you’re choking until it’s too late.
That’s where I am tonight.
Drunk on doubt.
The house has the kind of silence that leaves your head wide open for the shit you’ve been trying not to think about. I step out of my room and see Cassie leaving Aria’s room.
I watch her from the doorway as she turns toward her room.
I should go back in and sleep. Should let this night settle into quiet.
But I can’t. I want nothing more than to hear the truth from Cassie herself.
My legs move before my brain does, stalking her down the hall, every step loud with the things I’m not saying. My fists clench at my sides. My jaw locks so tight it’s a wonder my teeth don’t crack.
She stops at her door, her hand on the knob, and I see the moment she senses me.
She tenses when she turns, giving me a once-over with a wary look in her eyes. She’s signaling she’s had a long day and wants to get to bed, and while I’d love that for her, I need her to myself for a little while. Especially after what I found last night.
That photo—my teenage face staring back at me like it could have been Aria in another lifetime.
I can’t unsee it. I can’t un-know it.
I’ve been quiet for a while now, but I can’t hold it in any longer.
“Dante?” Cassie’s eyes narrow, like she already knows I’m wound too tight.
“We need to talk.”
Her arms fold tight across her chest, chin tilting up. “Now’s not the time, Dante. It’s late.”
I step in, closing the space between us until there’s nothing but heat. “Yeah, but you’ve been working all day.”
She stiffens but doesn’t move away, doesn’t tell me to leave. That’s enough of an invitation for me.
I grab her wrist gently, just enough to guide her backwards into my room. The one place I still have control, where I don’t feel like I’m losing my goddamn shit.
“You going to keep running?” I ask in frustration. “Or are you going to tell me the truth?”
Her chin lifts and her eyes blast open. And her voice? It fucking wavers. “About… what?”
I could push it and watch her crumble under the weight of three years of lies. But something stops me.
Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s not wanting to hear her say it out loud, make it real when I’m still figuring out how to breathe around it.
