Chapter 2 - The Collision Course“Mommy!” Rosie’s voice cut through the murmur of the cafeteria.
Panic surged through my veins with the velocity of a tidal wave. I stood up so fast my chair screeched against the linoleum, knocking my paper cup over and spilling lukewarm coffee across the table.
“Rosie! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the pediatric playroom with Nurse Carol!”
“Carol was on the phone with a grumpy lady,” Rosie announced cheerfully, weaving past a nurse pushing a supply cart. She stopped five feet away, her oversized raincoat swishing around her shins, and blinked up at me. Then, her gaze slowly drifted past my shoulder.
To Griffin.
The air left the room.
Griffin had frozen mid-motion, half-risen from his chair, his hands braced against the edge of the table. His eyes were wide, fixed on the little girl standing ten feet away from him.
For three terrifying, eternal seconds, the entire world stopped spinning.
Rosie tilted her head to the left—a habit she had inherited directly from me, or so I had always believed. But as she stared at Griffin, her eyes narrowed in deep, childish concentration. She looked at the sharp angle of his jaw, the dark sweep of his hair, and the distinct, amber-flecked hazel of his eyes.
The exact shade of his eyes.
“Mommy,” Rosie asked, her innocent voice ringing clear as a bell across the silent room, “why does that man have my eyes?”
Griffin’s face lost all color, draining into a ghastly, translucent white.
One of the bodyguards stepped forward, his hand slipping inside his jacket, reacting to the sudden tension as if a child’s question was a declaration of war.
“Stand down, Miller,” Griffin rasped, his voice cracking. He didn't look at his guard. He couldn't take his eyes off Rosie.
I rushed forward, dropping to my knees in front of my daughter, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her tightly against my chest. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
“Sweetheart, you shouldn't be here. Let's go back to the playroom right now—”
“No, look, Mommy!” Rosie insisted, trying to wiggle out of my grip to point a sticky finger at Griffin. “His eyes look just like mine in the mirror! Does he have a magic mirror too?”
Griffin rounded the table. His strides were long, unhurried, yet filled with a desperate, crushing momentum.
“Ren,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he dropped down to one knee directly opposite me. Up close, I could see the absolute devastation written across his features. The realization was hitting him like a freight train. He looked at Rosie, then up at me, the math adding up in his head with terrifying precision.
“How old is she?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
“Don't, Griffin,” I warned, my tears finally breaking free, spilling hot down my cheeks. “Don't you dare do the math.”
“She’s six,” he whispered, answering his own question. His gaze flicked back to Rosie, who was staring at him with wide, unbothered curiosity. “Born in November. Seven years ago... that was right when...”
He couldn't finish the sentence. He reached out a trembling hand, hovering inches from Rosie’s cheek, as if terrified that touching her would prove she was nothing more than a cruel hallucination brought on by guilt.
“Are you a prince?” Rosie asked him, tilting her head again, completely oblivious to the emotional earthquake happening around her. “Because my mommy says princes wear suits, but you look like you’re ready to fight a dragon.”
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Griffin let out a wet, broken laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
“Sometimes, sweetheart,” Griffin choked out, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he looked at our daughter, “the dragon wins.”
