Chapter 8

FREYA

I was pulled from sleep by soft kisses trailing along my neck, warm lips brushing my skin. Noah's familiar weight hovering over me brought me back to consciousness. I turned onto my back, blinking away the remnants of my dreams.

“You smell nice,” Noah murmured, his breath warm against my neck. I hummed, tilting my head to give him better access, though my mind was still hazy with sleep. His hands slid down, fingers curling around my nightgown strap, pulling it gently. But just as his lips began to trail lower, a knock came at the door.

“Mommy!”

The soft, innocent voice cut through the air like a cold splash of water.

“Fuck!” Noah hissed, his eyes snapping shut in frustration. He rolled off the bed with a groan, running a hand through his hair as he went to answer the door. Seeing my daughter standing there, clutching a pillow to her chest, made my heart swell and ache simultaneously.

“I can’t sleep,” she said, her voice small but clear, her eyes wide and unassuming as she looked between Noah and me.

I sat up, my heart melting at the sight of her. This used to happen more often when she was younger, but lately, it had become rare. Gia was growing up too fast, too fast for my liking, and each day she seemed a little more independent, a little further away from needing me. It was bittersweet.

Noah, however, looked far from charmed by the interruption. He pinched the bridge of his nose, irritation radiating off him in waves. His eyes locked on mine, frustration etched across his features, before he flung the door open with a sharp, unnecessary motion that made Gia and me flinch. Without another word, he stormed out, leaving the room tense with silence.

Gia stood there, clutching her pillow tighter, her small body trembling slightly. My poor baby.

“Come here, sweetie,” I said softly, patting the bed beside me. She hopped up, and I pulled her into my arms, holding her close and kissing the top of her head. The soft scent of her shampoo filled my senses, grounding me.

“Why is he angry, Mommy?” she asked, her voice muffled as she buried her face in my neck. Gia was a sensitive little girl, easily hurt by rudeness.

“He’s not angry, sweetheart,” I lied, my heart aching as I stroked her hair. “Just a little stressed.”

Noah’s reaction had stunned me. I understood frustration, but taking it out on a child? He behaved as if he were severely sex-deprived. And if he was, he was the one to blame. That wasn’t acceptable. It wasn’t like this happened every night. I was going to have a serious talk with him.

But before I could dwell on those thoughts, Gia pulled me back to the present.

“Mommy,” she said, her voice softer now, “Why isn’t Daddy with us?”

I froze. That wasn’t the question I expected. It hadn’t come up in a long time. Aiden’s face sprang to mind, and my heart skipped a beat. What would he do if he knew he had a daughter?

Two possibilities existed: he wouldn’t care, or he could get custody. He was wealthy. I knew it from the first night. Getting custody would be easy for him.

This possibility terrified me. It was why I hadn’t contacted him after becoming pregnant with Gia. She was all I had left, and I couldn’t afford to lose her. That made me selfish, but I had to live with the guilt. “I—I told you, sweetheart, I couldn’t find him.” This was what I’d told her all along when she asked about her father.

Her brows furrowed. “Did he go away because I was bad?”

“What? Who told you you were bad?” I was confused. Bad? Where did that come from?

“Isa said that happens to bad girls. Their daddies leave them.” A slight tremble shook her chin. Why were some children so mean and stupid? I swear, some kids made me want to throw them out the window.

“That’s not true. Isa, or anyone else who tells you that, is wrong. You’re not bad. You’re the most beautiful, the absolute best person in my life.” I gently tucked a few strands of hair from her face. She had her father’s hair color—a light shade of brown—and his eyes. She looked more like him than me. But she was beautiful.

“Really?” Gia peered up at me. It’s hard to describe that feeling—the way a child looks to you for confirmation, how much a yes or no from you matters. It’s an odd sense of pride.

“Really.” Getting the reassurance she needed, she snuggled into the crook of my neck. I gently stroked her head.

“Mommy loves you.”

“And I love Mommy too!” She pulled back enough to look at my face and offered a toothy grin.

The best fucking part of my day!

(Note: I've removed the chapter heading breaks and page number fragments. I also left the final sentence as is, reflecting the original tone.)