Chapter 8: Lily
Vivienne
I pick Lily up from school at 3:15.
She runs to me across the yard with her backpack bouncing, dark hair flying, grinning wide enough that I can see the gap where she lost a tooth last week.
"Mama!"
I catch her and swing her up. She's getting too big for this. Too heavy. But I hold on anyway.
"How was today?" I ask.
"Good. We made volcanoes."
"Real ones?"
"Baking soda ones," she says, rolling her eyes. "Obviously."
She has his face.
Every day, a little more.
The dark eyes. The sharp jaw that's already showing through her baby softness. The way she tilts her head when she's thinking.
I buckle her in and drive us home. Normal route. Normal afternoon. She talks about her teacher, about some boy who tried to steal her eraser, about what she wants for dinner.
I listen. I nod. I smile.
Inside, I'm calculating how long I have before Callum finds her.
He has resources. Money. People who locate things for a living. If he's looking, it won't take long.
"Mama," Lily says from the back seat. "You're being quiet."
"Just thinking," I reply.
"About what?"
About how to keep you safe from a man who doesn't know you exist. About how I chose this. About whether that makes me a protector or a thief.
"Dinner," I say instead.
"Pasta," she decides immediately.
"Deal."
At home, she spreads her homework across the kitchen table while I boil water and check my phone. No messages from Callum. No unknown numbers. Nothing yet.
But it's coming.
I know him. He doesn't let things go. He pursues. He presses. He doesn't stop until the thing he wants is in his hand.
I never thought I'd be one of those things again.
At 8 PM, after bath time and three stories and fifteen minutes of bargaining for "just five more minutes," Lily is finally asleep.
I sit on the couch in the dark.
My phone rings.
Private number.
I answer it anyway.
"Vivienne Laurent?" A woman's voice. Crisp. Professional.
"Who's asking?"
"I'm calling on behalf of Callum Reid's legal team."
I close my eyes.
"He's petitioning for a paternity disclosure order," she continues.
My stomach drops.
"On what basis?"
"Circumstantial evidence and timeline alignment," she says. "If you'd like to contest—"
"I'll contest," I say.
"Understood. You'll receive formal—"
I hang up.
I sit in the silence for a long time.
Then I walk to Lily's room and stand in the doorway, watching her sleep. One arm thrown over her stuffed bear. Mouth slightly open. Peaceful in a way I haven't felt in years.
"I won't let him take you," I whisper.
Not because he'd hurt her.
Because he'd love her.
And loving Lily means being in my life.
And I can't survive that again.
I pick Lily up from school at 3:15.
She runs to me across the yard with her backpack bouncing, dark hair flying, grinning wide enough that I can see the gap where she lost a tooth last week.
"Mama!"
I catch her and swing her up. She's getting too big for this. Too heavy. But I hold on anyway.
"How was today?" I ask.
"Good. We made volcanoes."
"Real ones?"
"Baking soda ones," she says, rolling her eyes. "Obviously."
She has his face.
Every day, a little more.
The dark eyes. The sharp jaw that's already showing through her baby softness. The way she tilts her head when she's thinking.
I buckle her in and drive us home. Normal route. Normal afternoon. She talks about her teacher, about some boy who tried to steal her eraser, about what she wants for dinner.
I listen. I nod. I smile.
Inside, I'm calculating how long I have before Callum finds her.
He has resources. Money. People who locate things for a living. If he's looking, it won't take long.
"Mama," Lily says from the back seat. "You're being quiet."
"Just thinking," I reply.
"About what?"
About how to keep you safe from a man who doesn't know you exist. About how I chose this. About whether that makes me a protector or a thief.
"Dinner," I say instead.
"Pasta," she decides immediately.
"Deal."
At home, she spreads her homework across the kitchen table while I boil water and check my phone. No messages from Callum. No unknown numbers. Nothing yet.
But it's coming.
I know him. He doesn't let things go. He pursues. He presses. He doesn't stop until the thing he wants is in his hand.
I never thought I'd be one of those things again.
At 8 PM, after bath time and three stories and fifteen minutes of bargaining for "just five more minutes," Lily is finally asleep.
I sit on the couch in the dark.
My phone rings.
Private number.
I answer it anyway.
"Vivienne Laurent?" A woman's voice. Crisp. Professional.
"Who's asking?"
"I'm calling on behalf of Callum Reid's legal team."
I close my eyes.
"He's petitioning for a paternity disclosure order," she continues.
My stomach drops.
"On what basis?"
"Circumstantial evidence and timeline alignment," she says. "If you'd like to contest—"
"I'll contest," I say.
"Understood. You'll receive formal—"
I hang up.
I sit in the silence for a long time.
Then I walk to Lily's room and stand in the doorway, watching her sleep. One arm thrown over her stuffed bear. Mouth slightly open. Peaceful in a way I haven't felt in years.
"I won't let him take you," I whisper.
Not because he'd hurt her.
Because he'd love her.
And loving Lily means being in my life.
And I can't survive that again.