"Mama…"
The sound of it froze the air in my lungs. A single word, fragile and trembling, yet it shattered everything inside me like glass. My head snapped toward the doorway, my chest rising and falling too quickly, my heart hammering so loud I could barely hear the boy's voice again.
A little boy stood there, barely four years old by the look of him. His tiny fists clutched a worn plushie rabbit, the poor thing's ear chewed and frayed as if it had been his only source of comfort for years. His round eyes glistened with tears, his bottom lip trembling, and yet the word clung stubbornly to his tongue, like he had been holding it back too long.
"Mama…"
No. No, no, no. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. My body stiffened against the bed, the sheets twisting beneath my grip as if I could anchor myself back to sanity. I wanted to scream, to shake the universe until it admitted this was some sick joke. I wasn't a mother. I had never carried a child. I had never kissed a scraped knee or sang a lullaby in the dark.
And yet here he was—calling me that word as though it had always belonged to me.
Kyle shifted beside me. His tall frame blocked part of the doorway, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that swallowed half the room. He didn't move toward the child right away, didn't scoop him up or hush his trembling cries. No—he simply turned those sharp, unreadable eyes on me, watching. Measuring. Waiting.
The silence stretched. My throat constricted.
The boy's small feet shuffled forward, the plushie dragging along the polished floor. His tiny voice cracked, desperate. "Mama… please don't go away again."
The plea pierced through me, cutting deeper than any accusation I'd ever endured. The world tilted, threatening to throw me off balance. My chest tightened with a suffocating ache I didn't understand. I wasn't his mother. I wasn't even Emberly Moonstone. And yet, the way he looked at me—like I was the center of his fragile little universe—made something inside me break open.
My hands trembled in my lap. Do I tell him the truth? That his "mama" was gone? That she'd left him with nothing but scars and shadows? But could I? Could I crush that desperate hope glowing in his eyes, the same kind of hope I once carried as a child, begging for scraps of love that never came?
Kyle's voice finally cut through the silence. "Kayden."
The boy flinched at the sound, his gaze flickering nervously to his father. Kyle's tone wasn't harsh this time—just firm, controlled, like someone used to commanding obedience without raising his voice.
"You shouldn't be here," he continued, his eyes never leaving mine. "Your mother needs rest."
Mother. The word rang foreign in my ears, wrong and heavy. My mind screamed denial, but my body betrayed me, swaying toward the boy like a magnet pulled by something I couldn't resist.
Kayden sniffled, gripping his plush tighter. "But she promised she wouldn't leave me again." His eyes darted back to me, pleading. "Right, mama? You promised…"
My lips parted, but no sound came out. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. I wanted to say I'm not her. I wanted to push the lie away before it swallowed me whole. But looking at him—so small, so afraid—I found myself choking on the truth.
What kind of monster would I be to take his mother away twice?
Kyle stepped closer, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. His gaze lingered on me, sharp as a blade, searching for cracks in my mask. He could sense it—that hesitation, that confusion. My skin prickled under his scrutiny, every nerve screaming that I was an intruder in this life.
But the boy didn't care. He reached the edge of the bed, his little hands gripping the blanket, tugging with surprising strength. "Don't leave me again, mama," he whispered, his voice breaking.
My chest burned. My body moved before my mind could stop it—I leaned forward, my hands hovering awkwardly in the air, torn between holding him and pushing him away. The smell of soap and innocence clung to him, so different from the smoke and bitterness that had stained my old life.
Kyle's voice was low, warning. "Emberly…"
That name struck me like a slap, reminding me I wasn't Astrid here. I wasn't anyone I recognized. I was Emberly Moonstone—his wife, this boy's mother, a stranger wearing a life I didn't choose.
And for the first time, I felt the walls of that identity closing in, threatening to trap me forever.
I swallowed hard, forcing my trembling hands back to my lap. I couldn't. Not yet. The boy's eyes widened at my retreat, his lip trembling harder, as if my hesitation alone was a fresh wound.
"Mama?" he whispered again, this time barely audible.
The room spun, my breath shallow, my pulse erratic. I wanted to scream, to tear off this borrowed skin, to demand the universe give me back my own damn life. But instead, all I could do was sit there, frozen, as his fragile little world crumbled at the edges.
And Kyle—he saw everything. His jaw tightened, his fists flexed at his sides, but he didn't intervene. No comfort for his son, no explanation for his wife. Just that cold, assessing gaze, as though my every move was another tally in a game I didn't know the rules of.
I bit the inside of my cheek, the taste of iron grounding me. Don't break down. Not now.
But the truth was already clawing at my throat:
I wasn't just Emberly Moonstone now.
I was somebody's mother.
And I didn't know if I could survive that.
The silence stretched so thin I thought it would snap. My fingers curled tightly into the blanket, knuckles white, trying to anchor myself in a body that still didn't feel like mine.
Kayden didn't move. He stood there, looking up at me with those watery eyes, clutching his plush rabbit like it was the last shield between him and the world. His shoulders shook, but he didn't cry out loud. The quiet tears were worse—like he had learned long ago that being too loud would only make things harder.
It ripped something open inside me.
Because I knew that silence. I knew what it was to swallow screams, to hide tears in the corner of a room so no one would call you weak, so no one would strike you harder for daring to show pain.
I wanted to reach out. I wanted to tell him I understood. But my hands stayed still, betraying me.
Kyle cleared his throat softly. The sound was measured, calculated, yet it filled the room with authority. His gaze flicked to Kayden, softer now, though still lined with steel.
"Kayden, go back to your room," he said. "Your mother needs rest."
"No."
The defiance was so small, so fragile, but it was there. Kayden's voice cracked, his tears glistening under the light. He shook his head, blond hair sticking to his wet cheeks. "She… she promised…"
Kyle's jaw tightened. He took one deliberate step toward the boy, his presence heavy, almost suffocating. "Kayden."
The boy flinched, but his grip on the plushie tightened, his little body trembling as he tried to hold his ground. "She'll leave again… she always leaves…"
His words sliced through me. My lungs emptied in a painful rush. That wasn't me—that wasn't Astrid—but Emberly. The real Emberly. She had left this child again and again, enough times for him to cry this way, to expect it as a pattern. Enough times for abandonment to become normal for him.
And now here I was, trapped in her skin, facing the ruins of her choices.
Kyle's eyes flicked back to me. He studied me, searching for… what? Guilt? Remorse? Maybe weakness. His voice dropped lower, quieter, though still sharp enough to cut. "Say something to him, Emberly."
My throat closed. My heart pounded so loudly I thought I might collapse under its weight. What could I say? That I wasn't his mother? That his mama was gone forever? That a stranger had taken her place?
But his eyes—God, his eyes begged me not to.
"Kayden…" My voice cracked. The name felt unfamiliar on my tongue, but right somehow, like it belonged in this moment. His head jerked up instantly, his teary gaze locking onto mine, fragile hope flickering back to life.
I swallowed hard, my voice trembling. "I… I'm not going anywhere right now."
His lips parted, a small gasp escaping. For a second, joy lit his face, bright and pure like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. But before I could take another breath, Kyle's hand landed on Kayden's shoulder.
"That's enough," he said, firm, brooking no argument. "Your mother needs time to recover. Go to your room."
Kayden's tiny frame sagged under the weight of his father's command. His tears spilled over again, sliding silently down his cheeks. But he didn't argue. He just turned, slowly, clutching his plushie tighter.
My chest twisted painfully as I watched him shuffle back toward the door, his small feet dragging like he was carrying chains too heavy for him. He paused at the threshold, glancing back one last time.
"Mama… please don't break your promise this time…"
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was suffocating.
I couldn't breathe. My hands trembled violently in my lap, nails digging into my palms. My heart screamed to run after him, to gather him up and hold him until he believed me, until he felt safe. But I couldn't move. I was frozen in place by the weight of Kyle's gaze.
He hadn't taken his eyes off me.
Slowly, he stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. He didn't look furious now. He didn't even look cold. He looked… unreadable. And that was worse.
"You almost slipped," he said quietly. His voice carried no anger, no heat—just observation. "For a moment, I thought you were going to tell him something… dangerous."
My breath hitched. He suspects.
Kyle leaned down, his face only inches from mine, his sharp eyes locking onto mine with terrifying intensity. "I don't know what game you're playing, Emberly. But if you drag our son into it…" His jaw clenched, his voice dropping into a low growl. "…there will be consequences."
A shiver ran down my spine. His words weren't loud, but they wrapped around me like chains. My chest tightened with a different kind of fear—not the raw terror of drowning, but the suffocating fear of being trapped in a life I didn't choose.
He straightened again, adjusting his cuff as if nothing had happened. "Rest," he ordered simply, his voice back to its controlled tone. "You'll need your strength."
He turned toward the door, his steps heavy against the polished floor. But before he reached it, his voice drifted back, softer yet laced with something darker. "And remember, Emberly… appearances matter. If you can't play the role, then at least don't ruin it."
The door shut behind him, leaving me alone in the cavernous room.
My body finally gave way. I collapsed back against the pillows, my chest heaving, my skin clammy with sweat. My thoughts raced in every direction, colliding, unraveling.
I had wanted an escape. I had wanted peace. Instead, I had woken in a cage gilded with wealth, wrapped in expectations I didn't understand, tied to a man whose presence both terrified and entranced me, and bound to a child who believed I was his mother.
And that child—Kayden. His broken voice still echoed in my head, clinging to me, demanding I carry it. Mama, please don't leave me again.
The word dug its claws into me, rewriting something I wasn't ready to face.
Because for the first time in years, someone needed me.
And I didn't know if I could live up to it.