Chapter 1Breaking The Script For My Love

When the man who was supposed to be the "protagonist" of her life finally appeared, Madeline and I already had a child.

I couldn’t fight the script. Once, she had been willing to burn her entire world down—breaking off a high-society engagement—just to be with me. But then the shift happened. Suddenly, she looked at me with a soul-deep loathing, as if my very existence was a stain on her life.

Eventually, I just broke. I let go of the love that had become a noose, walked away from the wreckage, and even left our daughter behind.

Until a Tuesday evening, six years later.

A small, solemn girl knocked on my door. She stood there with her face set in a mimicry of adult stoicism and said:

"My mom doesn't want me anymore. Can I stay with you?"

* * *

I froze, the words dying in my throat.

Sophie pouted, her brow furrowing with impatient displeasure. She tilted her beautiful little face up and spoke with the precision of someone reciting a textbook.

"My teacher said that parents have a legal and moral obligation to provide for their children..."

I opened the door the rest of the way, cutting off her prepared speech. Stepping aside, I said quietly, "Come in."

The amber glow of the hallway lamp caught the slight widening of her eyes. They shimmered with an emotion I couldn't name. She lifted her chin, let out a tiny, haughty "Hmph," and marched inside.

As I closed the door, I watched her. She was trying to look casual, but her eyes were darting everywhere, taking in my modest apartment. When she caught me watching, she gripped the straps of her backpack until her knuckles turned white.

"My name is Sophie," she said.

It sounded like an introduction, but it felt like a reminder. A reminder that she was the daughter I had shared with Madeline.

I knew. I had known the second I saw her. She was a carbon copy of the woman who had shattered my heart.

Sophie seemed disappointed by my lack of a grand reaction. She looked away, her little shoulders tensing. I took her small backpack, set it on the bench in the entryway, and led her to the sink.

"Let’s eat first," I said.

She gave a quiet "Okay." By the time I brought the food out, she had already scrambled onto a chair.

I asked her why she had suddenly decided to find me.

Sophie poked at a piece of broccoli in her bowl, her head bowed. Her hair was dark and thick, just like her mother’s. Her voice came out muffled.

"We had a fight. She started breaking things and told me to get out. She said she never wanted me to come back."

A childhood tantrum, then. A runaway. Madeline would probably be here to collect her within the hour. It made sense. Six years ago, the prestigious Jackson family—her family—had fought me tooth and nail for custody. They wouldn't just throw her away now.

My fork paused halfway to my mouth. I didn't know what I was feeling.

I hadn't expected a guest, so dinner was just simple stir-fry and soup. Sophie, it turned out, was a surgical eater. She spent ten minutes picking out every trace of onion and carrot until there was nothing left on her plate but white rice. She stared at the mangled vegetables with a look of profound betrayal, stole a glance at me, and then guiltily swallowed a mouthful of rice.

She had arrived with a shield of arrogance and pride, but seeing her struggle with a piece of broccoli made me realize she had likely been raised in a world where every whim was met. She hadn't been mistreated.

I felt a small, bitter relief. After finishing the dishes, I sat down to wait for the car Madeline would inevitably send.

I waited until nine-thirty.

A six-year-old’s internal clock is relentless. She pulled a pair of pajamas out of her bag, looked around the one-bedroom apartment, and pressed her lips together.

"There's only one bed," she noted. "Am I supposed to squeeze in with you?"

I looked at the clock. For some reason, the black SUVs hadn't arrived.

"Yeah," I sighed. "You're with me tonight."

I expected a meltdown. This cramped apartment was a far cry from the sprawling estate she was used to. But Sophie just bit her lip, her eyes flickering. She washed her face, grunted as she struggled into her pajamas, and climbed onto the bed herself.

She had complained about the vegetables, too, but she’d eaten them in the end. Now, she burrowed into the duvet until she was a small mound of fabric. She produced a book of fairy tales from somewhere, peeked out from the covers, and whispered, "Aren't you going to read to me?"

She actually looked... happy.