POV Dean
I gripped the steering wheel of Charlotte's car and pushed through the mountain roads faster than I should have. Beside me, Charlotte's fingers flew across her phone screen, calling Tom for the fifth time in three minutes.
"Answer the damn phone," she hissed, her voice climbing toward something that sounded like breaking glass. "Your daughter is in a hospital and you won't pick up? What kind of—"
The call went to voicemail again, and she made a sound of pure frustration.
"I swear to God, if something serious happened and he's just ignoring me—"
"Charlotte." I kept my voice steady, my eyes on the road. "Noah said it wasn't serious. He was there when Peyton called. He said Leah was talking and laughing, asking for hot chocolate. That doesn't sound like a child in crisis—it sounds like a kid who took a tumble and got spooked."
She rounded on me with fury blazing in her green eyes, her phone clutched so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
"Don't you dare tell me to calm down. I won't believe anything until I see my child with my own eyes. Until I touch her and know she's whole. You don't get to understand that kind of fear, Dean. You don't get to tell me how to feel about my daughter being hurt while I'm miles away and completely helpless."
I wanted to argue—wanted to tell her that maybe I understood more than she realized, that something had shifted in me over these past weeks, that the thought of those children hurt made my blood run cold in ways I couldn't fully explain.
But her jaw was set in that particular way that meant she'd stopped listening, and the fear radiating off her filled the car.
The silence that followed felt charged, heavy with everything we'd been discussing before Peyton's call shattered the moment.
I took a breath and tried to continue what we'd started on that overlook—tried to find the words for what had been burning in my chest since the presentation, since Leah's innocent observation about eyes that matched.
"Charlotte, there's something we need to talk about. Something about what Leah said when you were with Tom—"
I saw her expression shift from panic to something guarded and raw.
"She said I look just like them. The eyes. Steel-blue, Charlotte. The same as mine. I need to know if—"
"We're not discussing this now." Her voice came out flat, final, a door slamming shut between us. "Not while I'm terrified for my daughter. Not while I don't know if she's okay. Whatever you think you need to say can wait until I've held my child and confirmed she's still in one piece."
The conversation died, but the question hung between us like a truth waiting to be born.
We arrived at the hospital and I moved on instinct, approaching the reception desk before Charlotte could fumble with her purse or her phone or the tears I could see threatening behind her eyes.
"Leah Evergreen," I said to the nurse, my voice steady despite the chaos churning in my gut. "She was brought in after a snowboarding accident. We're her family."
The nurse directed us through corridors, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like trapped insects. Charlotte's heels clicked a frantic rhythm against the linoleum, and I matched her pace, my hand hovering near the small of her back without quite touching.
Then we found them.
Leah sat in the hallway outside an examination room, her small hand clasped in Tom's as he spoke with a doctor in a white coat. They were shaking hands, Tom's voice carrying that smooth gratitude I'd come to despise—the practiced charm of a man who'd learned to perform concern without ever truly feeling it.
Jealousy tore through me with unexpected ferocity, hot and consuming and completely irrational.
That should be me holding her hand.
I should have been there when she decided to go riding alone—should have noticed she'd slipped away, should have been watching her, protecting her, being the person she turned to when she was scared.
My thoughts spiraled into dark places, into fantasies of different outcomes, of a life where I'd known the truth from the beginning.
"Leah!" Charlotte's voice broke the spiral, and the little girl's head snapped toward us. She broke free from Tom's grip and ran toward her mother with confident strides that suggested the injury was minor.
Charlotte dropped to her knees and pulled Leah into an embrace so fierce it looked almost painful, her hands running over her daughter's face, her limbs, checking for damage with the desperate thoroughness of maternal terror.
"What happened? What were you thinking going out alone? Don't you ever—I was so scared, baby. You're grounded. Do you hear me? Grounded until you're thirty."
I crouched beside them, my voice gentle as I met Leah's eyes. "Tell me what happened, kiddo. All of it."
Leah launched into explanation with her characteristic dramatic flair, her small hands gesturing wildly as she spoke.
"I wanted to practice what you taught me, Dean! I was doing SO good—like, really good, better than yesterday even—and then there was this bump I didn't see and I went flying and the landing was bad but it wasn't even that scary, honestly, but Tom saw me fall from the window and he came running out and insisted on the hospital even though I told him I was FINE."
Tom approached with measured steps, his expression arranged into careful concern.
"No concussion, no fractures. Just minor bruising on her knee and shoulder. I wanted to be absolutely certain, given how hard she hit the ground."
Charlotte rounded on him, relief transforming into sharp accusation.
"Why didn't you answer your phone? I called six times, Tom. Six. I was losing my mind imagining the worst while you just—"
"I told him not to answer!" Leah cut in, her voice rising defensively. "I said everything was fine and I didn't want you to worry and come racing here for nothing. It's not Tom's fault, Mommy. He was trying to be nice."
Tom nodded, his eyes finding Charlotte's with something that looked almost genuine.
"I'm trying to show you I can be responsible, Charlotte. That I take the children's safety seriously, even when they insist they don't need medical attention. I made a judgment call—perhaps I should have updated you sooner, but my priority was getting Leah examined as quickly as possible."
I watched Charlotte's face cycle through emotions. Without thinking, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her in a gesture of support, pulling her against my chest, feeling her body stiffen briefly before she relaxed into me with a shuddering exhale.
Over her shoulder, I saw Tom's expression transform into barely contained fury, a silent demand to remove my hands immediately, a promise of consequences I couldn't begin to anticipate.
But I didn't care. Something shifted today—the truth finally spoken, the lies beginning to unravel. I was ready to fight for this, for her, for whatever chance might exist.
I'd do whatever it took to ensure she didn't choose Tom, and maybe, if I was lucky, that she might choose me instead.
Charlotte pulled back and turned to Tom, her voice steadier now. "Thank you for your vigilance. Truly. Just please—answer your phone next time. Even a text. Something."
Before the moment could stretch further, Leah grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the exit.
"I hate hospitals," she announced firmly. "They're boring and sometimes scary and they smell weird. I want to leave immediately, Dean. Right now. Can we go?"
I let myself be led by this fierce little girl who had somehow turned my entire world upside down in a matter of weeks. There was no going back now, I realized. Whatever she was to me—whatever the truth might be—I was already lost.
I scooped her up and settled her onto my shoulders, breaking into a light jog toward the exit while Leah shrieked with delight, her small hands gripping my hair for balance.
Behind us, Charlotte's voice called out—"Dean, be careful! Put her down, she's injured!"—but there was something underneath the worry that sounded almost like laughter.