Chapter 125 up
“Hey—watch where you’re going!”
The small voice collided with Nyla at the same time the paper cup slipped from her hand. Coffee splashed across the marble floor, dark and spreading like a stain that didn’t know when to stop. Nyla staggered half a step back, instinctively reaching forward, her fingers closing around a thin wrist before the child in front of her could lose his balance.
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically, her voice rushing ahead of her thoughts. “I wasn’t—”
She stopped.
The boy stood perfectly still, his small fingers still wrapped around hers. He looked up slowly, not startled, not embarrassed, not angry. Just… curious. As if he had been waiting for this exact moment and was now confirming something only he could feel.
Nyla’s breath hitched.
Something tight wrapped around her chest, sudden and sharp, like invisible hands squeezing her lungs. Her vision blurred at the edges, heat stinging behind her eyes. She blinked, once, twice, confused by the moisture gathering there.
The boy didn’t pull away.
He had dark hair, neatly cut but already rebelling at the crown, and eyes too serious for his age. Eyes that seemed to look past her face and into something older, deeper, buried beneath years of defenses she didn’t even remember building.
“I didn’t mean to bump into you,” the boy said. His voice was soft, careful. “I was looking for the bathroom.”
Nyla swallowed. Her throat felt dry, as if she had been running.
“That’s… okay,” she managed. “I wasn’t paying attention either.”
She released his wrist, suddenly aware of how tightly she had been holding on. Her fingers tingled, the ghost of his warmth lingering against her skin. She folded her hands together, pressing her palms hard as if trying to ground herself.
What is wrong with you? she scolded herself silently. He’s just a child.
The boy tilted his head slightly, studying her face with unsettling focus. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just looked—like he was memorizing her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No,” Nyla said quickly. Too quickly. “No, I’m fine.”
Her heart was beating too fast. She could feel it in her ears, in her wrists, in the hollow of her throat. This was ridiculous. She had stood in boardrooms full of men waiting for her to fail without breaking a sweat. She had endured whispers, accusations, calculated cruelty. And yet here she was, shaken by a stranger who barely reached her waist.
A woman hurried toward them from across the lobby, heels clicking sharply against the floor. “Evan!” she called. “I told you not to run off like that.”
Evan.
The name landed somewhere deep inside Nyla, like a bell struck underwater—muted, heavy, resonating long after the sound should have faded.
“I wasn’t running,” the boy—Evan—said calmly. “I just walked.”
The woman sighed, relief and mild frustration mixing on her face. She glanced at Nyla apologetically. “I’m so sorry. He has a habit of disappearing when I look away for two seconds.”
“It’s fine,” Nyla said. She meant it more than she expected. “Really.”
The woman smiled politely. “Thank you for stopping him. Evan, what do you say?”
“Thank you,” Evan said. His eyes never left Nyla’s face.
“You’re welcome,” Nyla replied, her voice softer now.
The woman placed a gentle hand on Evan’s shoulder. “Come on. Mr. Clark is waiting.”
The name hit harder than it should have.
Nyla felt the air shift around her, like a pressure change before a storm. Clark. Of course. The city was not big enough for that name to be coincidence anymore.
Evan didn’t move.
“I want to stay for a second,” he said.
The woman frowned slightly. “Evan—”
“It’s okay,” Nyla interrupted, surprising herself. She crouched down to Evan’s eye level, ignoring the way her knees protested. “You can stay for a second.”
Evan’s lips curved into the smallest smile, barely there, as if he didn’t quite trust happiness yet.
Up close, the resemblance was unmistakable.
The shape of his nose. The straight line of his eyebrows. The way his gaze sharpened when he focused. Clark’s face stared back at her from a smaller, softer frame, stripped of arrogance and layered with innocence instead.
So this is him, her mind whispered before she could stop it. Clark’s son.
She didn’t know why that knowledge hurt. It shouldn’t. It had nothing to do with her. And yet something inside her twisted, tight and aching, like an old bruise pressed too hard.
“What’s your name?” Evan asked.
“Nyla.”
“Nyla,” he repeated carefully, testing the sound. “That’s pretty.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. “Thank you.”
He leaned closer, close enough that she could smell soap and something faintly sweet—maybe candy. His small hand lifted hesitantly, hovering near her sleeve, then dropping back to his side as if unsure whether he was allowed to touch her.
Nyla felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to pull him into her arms.
The intensity of it scared her.
She stood abruptly, the movement too fast. “You should go,” she said, forcing a light tone. “Your… your father is waiting.”
Evan’s expression changed at the word father. Something shadowed his eyes—something complicated and too heavy for someone so young.
“Do you know my dad?” he asked.
Nyla’s heart stumbled.
“I—” She stopped. How do you answer a question like that without breaking something fragile? “I know who he is,” she said finally.
“Oh.” Evan considered that. “He’s busy a lot.”
“I imagine he is.”
“But he said this event is important,” Evan continued. “He said I have to learn how to behave at places like this.”
Nyla smiled faintly. “You’re doing just fine.”
Evan nodded solemnly, accepting this as fact. Then, without warning, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her waist.
Nyla froze.
Her breath left her lungs in a silent rush. Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, afraid to move, afraid not to. His head rested against her stomach, light and trusting, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
The warmth was immediate. Spreading. Real.
She could feel his heartbeat through his small chest, steady and alive, syncing disturbingly fast with her own. Her vision blurred again, this time without warning, tears burning hot and sudden.
“Evan,” the woman said sharply, startled. “That’s not—”
“It’s okay,” Nyla whispered, before she could think better of it. Her arms came down slowly, carefully, resting against his back without fully embracing him. “It’s okay.”
Evan sighed, a soft, content sound, and leaned into her just a little more.
For a brief, terrifying second, Nyla felt like something lost had found its way back to her.
Then Evan pulled away on his own.
“Sorry,” he said politely. “I just wanted to.”
“It’s fine,” Nyla said, her voice thick. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
The woman stared at them, unease flickering across her features. “Evan, we really have to go now.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
But before turning away, he looked back at Nyla one last time. Really looked. His brow furrowed, small fingers pressing lightly against his chest.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Of course.”
He hesitated, searching for words big enough to hold whatever he was feeling.
“Why,” Evan asked slowly, “does my chest feel warm when I look at you?”