Five Years Later — Los Angeles, California

The sky over Los Angeles today is a bright, ridiculous blue. The kind of blue they use in dish soap commercials or on overpriced travel posters that seem desperate to say, life here is perfect, as long as your wallet is thick enough to cover taxes and therapy.

And technically, I fall into that category now.

No, I am not a mogul. I do not own a private jet, I do not drink forty-dollar green juice every morning, and I do not have a former rapper turned sugar daddy. But I have a nice kitchen, a closet full of cheap shoes that do not look cheap, and a bank account that does not make me cry at the end of the month. That is enough.

Oh, and one more thing: I have a four-year-old daughter with the mouth of a tiny politician and the energy of half a Marine battalion.

“ZOE, BATH TIME!”

The shout comes from upstairs. Little feet thunder down the stairs like a war drum.

I stir the simmering tomato sauce and shout from the kitchen, “Do not run on the stairs or you will fall and end up like a failed Disney doll!”

“I do not want to bathe! I smell good!” that shrill voice answers from the living room.

Four years. Four years of my life defined by yelling, biscuit crumbs on the couch, and a persistent urge to hit myself for once believing single motherhood would be fun.

Zoe bursts into the kitchen. Her wavy brown hair is a mess, a bird’s nest crowned with a purple bunny hair clip half falling out.

“Can I eat first?” she hugs my leg. “Tell Grace I am big now and I can shower by myself... later... tonight... or tomorrow!”

I look her over. Oversized white tee with a dinosaur, bare legs with no pants, huge eyes framed by thick lashes that make me curse. Those are Kai’s eyes. Ice-blue and accusing every time I touch his stack of books. Eyes that could stop your heart and then make you regret it when it starts up again.

I mutter under my breath, “I need to have a serious talk with God about how one night, one mistake, ended up giving me a daughter with the dominant DNA of the man I wanted to throw into the ocean five years ago.”

Zoe raises an eyebrow. “Who are you throwing into the ocean, Mommy?”

“A chicken. The one we will eat tonight.”

Grace appears in the doorway, breathless, hair a mess, looking like she just finished a marathon. “She jumped off the bed. Then hid in the closet. Then... I do not know how she unlocked the toy chest and climbed out the small window—”

“I am a ninja,” Zoe interrupts, lifting one leg. “I have superpowers.”

“I have Advil and a hot pan,” I reply, setting down the spatula. “And I also have absolute authority.”

Zoe grins and bolts back toward the couch. Grace sighs and chases after her with the resigned desperation of a caregiver who has accepted reality.

I laugh softly, then return to the stove. One hand stirs the sauce, the other grabs the pasta pot.

And as always, when a quiet moment hits, my mind does not stay quiet.

Just one night. One. No repeat performances. No second acts. No pillow talk. Just that night. And nine months later, Zoe arrived like a sweet, inconvenient punishment from the universe.

I remember seeing her for the first time in the delivery room. How my eyes locked on hers. The color. The shape. That sharp, familiar gleam.

“How does she feel?” Claire asked back then, half joking, half curious.

“Like Kai scaled down, sweetened, and made into a baby girl with attitude,” I said.

And now? Five years later?

Zoe runs through the big house I bought with my own money. In a quiet, upscale neighborhood where stay-at-home moms compete via stroller show-offs and organic smoothies.

I built all of this from scratch. After the divorce, I came back to United States. I found work at a small architecture firm, saved, and then made the switch to wedding planning because, ironically, I am unbelievably good at turning strangers into lifelong partners, even if I could not do it for myself.

I grew the business. I landed A-list clients. Weddings at Napa Valley wine estates, fake Versailles gardens in Arizona, even a museum wedding that nearly made me marry the gallery. And eventually, I bought this house.

A home with a big kitchen. A place where Zoe can run. A place where I can cook. A place where I feel whole.

Still, sometimes, in the middle of the night, a small part of me asks: If Kai knew about Zoe, would he care?

I do not have the answer.

And I do not need one.

XXXX

There are worse things than a migraine.

Like... compiling the Q2 financials while sipping stale coffee, sitting in an “ergonomic” chair that stopped being ergonomic a year ago, and reading the florist’s expense report that somehow blew five thousand dollars on red roses and labeled it all “primary core visual artistic detail.”

I rubbed my temples and stared at my laptop. Spreadsheet hell on full display.

“If I suddenly die today, bury me with my calculator. Let God know I tried,” I muttered.

My tiny office was flooded with sunlight from the big window on the right. The room was modern and pretty, the aesthetic a catalog of my own work: a white glass desk, a natural-stone accent wall, shelves stacked with catalogs and wedding mood boards, and an aromatherapy candle that never actually calmed anything.

I sighed and leaned back. One hand reached for my coffee mug. The other scratched out another ridiculous line item from the budget.

Then—high heels clattered down the narrow hallway like a train.

Hayden.

I recognized his breathless panic from a mile away.

The door burst open like he’d been chased by the FBI. “THALIA—”

“Honestly, Hayden, if you tell me our eucalyptus candles are out of stock I will jump out this window and land on a client’s car,” I said.

He stopped in the doorway, panting, brown hair messy, short-sleeve shirt fluttering like he’d sprinted up from the floor below. “This is worse than candles.”

“What? The wedding dress exploded? Our caterer was kidnapped by a food mob?”

He held up a finger. “Save the sarcasm.”

“Sweetie, sarcasm is my lifeblood.”

Hayden closed the door and collapsed into the chair opposite my desk. His eyes were wide. When he was this keyed up, it usually meant one of three things:

A bridezilla had detonated.

Something was on fire.

Something from my past had resurfaced.

With the calm of someone announcing a crime headline, he said, “We landed a new client. Private event. International. Huge. Budget: unlimited. Venue in Pasadena. VVIP guests. They want us to handle it.”

I rolled my eyes. “If you make me stop doing taxes just because another rich client showed up, I—”

“They call themselves Domínguez. From Spain. The main client is Rachel Verona.”

Time stopped.

Okay, not literally. But something in my chest clenched, the same way it does when Zoe stays quiet in her room for too long and I know she’s planning chaos.

“Rachel... Verona?” I asked softly.

Hayden nodded. “And her fiancé... Kaiden Alejandro De Vega Domínguez.”

Small world, huh.

No. Turns out the world is tiny. And a real son of a—