After His Fiancée Cut the Brakes, He Chose Me

The afternoon sun slanted through Lennox's apartment windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. I'd been avoiding both him and Sloan since her morning arrival, keeping to the guest room and pretending to sort through my meager belongings. But the sound of a child's laughter pulled me from my self-imposed isolation.

I stepped into the living room to find a small girl with Lennox's blue eyes and dark hair standing in the doorway. Mia, I realized—his daughter from a relationship I'd never been able to ask about before I left. She couldn't have been more than seven or eight, her small frame dwarfed by the backpack she was shrugging off.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, launching herself at Lennox, who caught her with his good leg, wincing slightly.

But then she saw me, and something shifted in her expression. Her eyes widened with recognition, as if she'd seen me in photographs or heard stories.

"You're Judith," she said, not a question but a statement. Before I could respond, she was running toward me, her small arms wrapping around my waist in a fierce hug that knocked the breath from my lungs.

"Hello, Mia," I managed, awkwardly patting her back. I'd never been good with children, but something about her complete lack of pretense disarmed me.

Over Mia's head, I caught Sloan's expression—a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was perched on Lennox's sofa, one manicured hand resting on her prosthetic leg, which she'd made no effort to hide today.

"How sweet," Sloan said, her voice dripping with false warmth. "Already playing house in a life that isn't yours. How... comfortable for you."

Her words hit like a physical blow, but I kept my expression neutral. Lennox's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his eyes moving between Sloan and me with an unreadable expression.

I couldn't breathe in that apartment anymore. The walls seemed to close in, suffocated by history and tension and Sloan's thinly veiled hostility.

"I need some air," I muttered, grabbing my coat.

"Where are you going?" Lennox asked, his voice sharp with concern.

"Out," I replied, not bothering to look back.

The Soho bar was dimly lit and quiet, the kind of place that existed in the cracks between trendy neighborhoods. I ordered my usual—black coffee, no sugar, no cream—and found a corner booth where I could nurse it in peace.

But peace wasn't meant to be mine. I'd barely taken three sips when a familiar presence slid into the seat across from me.

"You ran away," Lennox said, his voice low and controlled. "Again."

"I needed space," I replied, not meeting his eyes.

He leaned forward, his fingers brushing mine as he took my coffee cup, taking a sip before I could stop him. "Tell me about the last three years," he said, his voice softer now. "Where did you go? Who did you become?"

The questions I'd been dreading. The ones I couldn't answer without revealing too much of the hollow ache I'd carried.

"Why does it matter?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Because I need to know, Jude. I need to know what I lost when you disappeared. What I'm trying to get back now."

His words hung between us, heavy with implication. Before I could respond, his expression shifted, hardening.

"Why didn't you answer any of my emails?" he demanded, his voice suddenly sharp. "Not one, Jude. Not a single one. Do you have any idea what that was like?"

I looked up at him then, into the blue eyes that had haunted my dreams for three years, and felt something crack inside me. But before I could speak, before I could find the words to explain the impossible, his phone buzzed with a message that made his face go pale.