I've been tense and quiet all evening. Naomi noticed approximately three seconds after I walked through the door, because my sister has the observational skills of a very nosy detective and the subtlety of a freight train, but she’s been polite enough to wait.
Unfortunately for me, her patience doesn’t last long (approximately three full hours of being awake—it’s a miracle she’s even fallen asleep with such intrigue vexing her).
"You're doing the thing," she says, watching me rearrange the same stack of mail for the fourth time.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you pretend everything's fine while your eye twitches and you reorganize inanimate objects like they personally wronged you."
I set down the mail. She's not wrong. I've been vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear since I left work. And now it's morning and I'm standing frozen in front of my closet like it's a portal to another dimension.
Which, given what today might bring, isn't far off.
Naomi appears in my doorway, already dressed for kid duty, Sören balanced on her hip like a very judgmental accessory. "Okay, what's going on? And don't say 'nothing' because you've been staring at that blazer for ten minutes."
"Two players," I say quietly. "Traded from Philly. The announcement is today."
Her face does something complicated. Understanding mixed with concern mixed with that particular ‘oh-shit’ expression that sisters reserve for moments when they know you're about to combust.
"Do you think it's them?"
"It could be anyone." My voice sounds distant, clinical. "Could be Cassian. Could be worse."
"What's worse than Cassian?"
I don't answer. Can't answer.
Because explaining that the two men I haven't seen in thirteen months—the two men who left me and whose DNA might or might not be currently drooling on my couch—would be infinitely more complicated than facing my narcissistic ex-fiancé.
Instead, I reach for armor.
The sharpest blazer in my closet: charcoal gray, tailored to within an inch of its life, shoulders that could cut glass. Highest heels: black, pointed, the kind that make you three inches taller and 100% more likely to stab someone if necessary. Hair pulled into an immaculate low bun so tight it's practically a face-lift.
Naomi watches me transform from Exhausted Mom to Professional Ice Queen and nods approvingly. "There she is. Dr. Marlowe in the building."
"I just need to get through today."
"You'll get through it. You're a badass." She shifts Sören to her other hip. "I've got the kids. You text me the second you know anything. And I mean the second, Selene. Don't make me worry."
"I'll text."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She studies me for another moment, then pulls me into a one-armed hug that smells like baby powder and determination.
"Whatever happens, you've got this. And you've got me. And if it's Cassian, I know a guy who knows a guy who can make his car very mysteriously keyed."
I laugh despite everything. "You don't know a guy."
"I could find a guy. I'm resourceful."
The Sirens facility is buzzing when I arrive. Same manic energy as yesterday, but amplified, because today is the day. The announcement. The reveal. The moment I find out whether I'm about to face my past or just paranoidly catastrophizing for no reason.
Spoiler alert: it's never for no reason.
I make it to my office without making eye contact with anyone, which is a minor miracle given that I'm wearing heels that click like countdown timers on the tile floor. Door closed. Lights dimmed.
If I could build a blanket fort and hide until this whole thing blows over, I would. But I'm a professional. Professionals don't hide in blanket forts.
(Professionals absolutely hide in blanket forts, but they do it after hours with better wine.)
I'm nervously stroking the frame of the photo on my desk—me and the kids together—staring at my computer screen. Not reading anything, just letting my eyes unfocus until the words turn into abstract art, when there's a knock at my door.
"Doc?" Jordan's voice, cheerful and oblivious. "Got a second?"
No. "Of course."
The door swings open before I can brace myself, and Jordan's grinning like he just won the lottery. "Figured I'd introduce you to the new guys. They just got in this morning, and I was telling them about how you're basically the team's favorite person, so—"
He steps aside and there they are.
Axel and Mateo, mid-conversation about something, stepping into my office like they belong here. Like this is normal, like my entire world isn't currently imploding at the molecular level.
Then they see me.
Mateo's easy grin—the one that's probably charmed half of Philadelphia—vanishes. Just gone, like someone hit the delete button on his entire face. Axel goes completely still, which is somehow more terrifying than if he'd started yelling or throwing furniture.
My heart stops. Forgets how to beat. Considers early retirement.
"Guys, this is Dr. Marlowe," Jordan says, absolutely oblivious to the fact that the oxygen has left the room and taken all rational thought with it. "Best sports psychologist in the league, no contest. Doc, meet Axel Nielsen and Mateo Velasco."
"Selene…" Mateo says my name like he's testing whether I'm real.
Whether I'm actually sitting here in this office wearing the sharpest blazer known to humanity while his entire brain reboots.
"Hello." My voice is thin. Translucent. Barely qualifies as sound. "Welcome to Seattle."
Axel doesn't say anything. Just stares at me with those ice-blue eyes that used to make me feel seen and now make me feel like I'm being catalogued for evidence. His jaw is tight enough to crack diamonds.
The silence stretches. Jordan shifts his weight, glancing between the three of us like he's finally starting to sense that something's off.
Then Mateo's gaze drifts—casual, innocent, deadly—to the photo on my desk.
Three babies. Big smiles. Dark eyes and curls that haven't decided their color yet. Unmistakably, undeniably mine.
He goes still. Completely, unnaturally still.
Axel follows his eyes and the temperature in the room drops forty degrees.
"Those your kids, Doc?" Mateo asks. His voice is too casual, too careful, like he's defusing a bomb with nothing but good intentions and rapidly fraying composure.
Panic floods my system. "No." The lie comes out fast, automatic. "They're my sister's."
Jordan laughs—actually laughs, because he has no idea he's currently witnessing a minor apocalypse.
"Doc, are you having a split personality moment or something? Because unless you faked being pregnant and took maternity leave for fun. Those are definitely yours."
I can't breathe. Literally cannot pull oxygen into my lungs.
The blazer that felt like armor thirty seconds ago now feels like a straitjacket.
Axel's expression has gone completely unreadable. That thing he does where he shuts down every emotion and becomes a glacier in human form—that's happening right now, in my office, three feet away from me.
Mateo's not smiling. Not even a little bit. His jaw works like he's chewing through words he can't say in front of Jordan.
"You know what?" Jordan mumbles, finally—finally—sensing that he's stepped into something he doesn't understand and probably doesn't want to. "I'll just... let you guys catch up. Yeah. Catch up. I'll be... elsewhere."
He backs out of the office like he's escaping a crime scene.
The door clicks shut. It's just the three of us now. Me, sitting behind my desk in my armor and my lies. Them, standing in front of me like ghosts I never expected to see again.
And three babies in a photo frame, smiling obliviously at the wreckage they've caused.
Selene Marlowe, you have nowhere left to hide.