“North and Damen. Closes at nine.”
Julian checked his watch. 7:32.
“Get the car.”
Four years ago, Julian convinced himself pushing Lena away was protection. His enemies had found her. Sent photos. Made threats.
Make her irrelevant—or watch her suffer.
So he made her hate him.
But protection that leaves someone starving isn’t protection.
It’s cowardice.
That night, the food truck glowed beneath a dying streetlight. Julian watched Lena scrub the grill, shoulders tight, exhaustion carved into every movement.
He stepped forward at 8:45.
The bell chimed.
Lena froze.
“No,” she said flatly. “We don’t.”
“Lena—”
“It’s Ms. Harper,” she snapped. “And we’re closed.”
“I saw them,” Julian said quietly. “The kids.”
Her back stiffened.
“They’re mine,” he said. “Aren’t they?”
Silence.
Then she turned—anger blazing through tears. “You don’t get to show up after four years and claim them.”
“I didn’t know.”
She laughed once. It cut.
“Where were you when I worked twelve hours throwing up?” she demanded. “When I gave birth alone? When I watered down formula because I couldn’t afford more?”
Each word landed like a blow.