Chapter Ten

The grocery store was practically empty.

I got everything on my list in record time—no lines, no interruptions, just the essentials and enough to make a tuna noodle casserole big enough to last the week.

Sunday mornings were my favorite time to shop. Early enough that most people were still waking up or at church. I didn’t have to run into anyone I knew. I was still dodging Stacey and half expected her to ambush me in the produce aisle.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving everything slick and gray, the world smeared around the edges like a half-erased painting.

I told myself that was why I felt off-kilter.

The weather. The light. Too much caffeine.

Not the fact that I’d filed the custody paperwork. Or that I’d signed my name over and over again while trying not to shake. Or that I was waiting for a court date to be set.

There were still missing forms. Still boxes I didn’t know how to fill out—proof of income, medical affidavits, letters from people willing to swear I was capable. Like being loved wasn’t enough. Like holding Sam while she cried didn’t count unless someone with a title signed off on it.

I called constantly. Showed up when I didn’t have to. Smiled too much. Said yes, ma’am and thank you and of course I understand.

I needed them to know me. To remember me.

To see someone safe enough to trust with a child who wasn’t mine.

Every visit felt like a test I didn’t know the rules for. One wrong answer, and I could lose her.

It was exhausting. But I was doing it.

My stomach hurt every morning. My head ached constantly. I lived on caffeine, ibuprofen, and the hope that no one would ask the wrong question before I figured out the right answer.

Finding the stone had made it clear—I couldn’t keep pretending. I couldn’t afford to wait for someone else to decide what Sam needed. Not when the world was still shifting underneath our feet.

I had to move. I had to look like I had it handled. Like someone who deserved to keep her.

Ziya hadn’t woken up. Six weeks gone, and nothing had changed.

They’d moved her out of the hospital to a private care center—clean, quiet, the kind of place you stayed while long term decisions were made.

Ziya always looked the same. Too still. Too perfect.

I brought books I didn’t read. Told her the boring parts of my week. Dabbed lavender lotion on her hands and told myself it helped.

I hadn’t brought Sam. She was too little to understand tubes and wires and silence that stretched out like forever. Too little to sit at her mother’s bedside and not be able to ask why she wouldn’t wake up.

It would scare her. And if I’m honest, it scared me too.

Every visit with Ziya reminded me of sitting beside Hugh, counting heartbeats and hoping they weren’t the last. I hated going. But I went anyway. Because Ziya didn’t have anyone else. I was her only visitor.

I kept my promise to Hugh.

I didn’t use magic.

Not even once.

Sam chattered from the backseat, drawing me out of my thoughts. She swung her legs in her car seat, making up a story about space bears and purple moons.

"And then the moon said, 'I'm not really cheese, I'm a cookie!' And the bears were so happy they ate the whole moon, but not the stars, 'cause the stars are spicy."

I smiled without meaning to. "Sounds like a smart bear."

"They’re very good at sharing," Sam said solemnly. "We could share a moon if you want."

"I'd like that."

I let the words wash over me while I loaded groceries into the cart, one slow armful at a time. Crackers, apples, a jug of milk. Diapers for nighttime, even though she didn’t really need them anymore. Little safety nets, tucked in between the essentials.

Normal. Necessary.

I turned back to the cart to grab another bag and load it into the car.

Naveen stood there. Like he’d always been there. Like he belonged.

A tall man in an immaculate charcoal coat. Dark hair slicked back against the drizzle. Calm. Composed.

From a distance, it probably looked like nothing at all. A kind stranger lending a hand to a tired mother in a grocery store parking lot. A pretty little tableau of small-town kindness.

But up close, the air felt thin. Like the moment before a storm.

“Please,” he said, all charm and cultured warmth. “Allow me.”

A man’s hand reached past me—strong, steady, fingers heavy with rings, each a different shape—onyx, jade, something too dark to name—lifting a sack of groceries like it was nothing.

I forced my hands to unclench.

Forced myself to smile, because people were watching.

He placed the bag carefully in the back of my Subaru, then straightened with deliberate grace. Brushed an invisible fleck of dust from his sleeve. A performance, every gesture practiced.

“You’ve done well,” he said, voice low, private. “But you must know this can’t last.”

The cart bumped the side of the car.

Sam giggled from the backseat. “You bonked it!” she said. “That’s okay. Accidents happen!”

His eyes flicked toward her—just for a moment—but something shifted. The air changed. Not curiosity. Not warmth. Something colder. Measured. Predatory.

"Hello there, little—"

I stepped between them before he could finish. Blocked his line of sight with my body and slammed the hatch closed hard enough to make the car rock.

Naveen chuckled softly, like we were old friends sharing a joke.

"You misunderstand," he said, voice calm, faintly amused. "I’m not here to make trouble. I’m offering you a way through it. A path someone like you might not see."

I glanced around. No one was paying attention. A woman two rows over loaded her trunk with paper bags. An old man leaned on his cart, fiddling with his keys. To them, Naveen was just a man being kind.

No one saw the trap closing around me.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, my voice steady in a way that cost more than I wanted to admit.

"Come now," he said, "You’re intelligent. You understand how these things work. Tides shift. People take sides. And you’ve already stretched yourself so thin. It’s showing."

"You’re tired," he said. "Stretched thin. It shows. And it’s not your fault. You weren’t meant for this kind of burden."

I gripped the cart handle until my knuckles whitened.

"Letting go isn’t failure, Allison. It’s wisdom. Knowing your place is a strength."

"I’m not letting her go."

Naveen tilted his head, considering me like a teacher weighing a promising but stubborn student.

"This was never about you," he said quietly. "It’s about Samara. About where she belongs. Among her people. Her lineage. We can offer her stability. A future shaped by legacy, not accident."

His eyes darkened slightly, the first crack in his polished mask.

"You resist, and you’ll lose. The law favors blood. It always has. It always will."

"You'll have your day in court," I said. My voice shook. I let it.

He smiled — a real smile, sharp and knowing.

"Of course," he said. "I look forward to it." He stepped back, smoothing his coat with a precise, almost ceremonial gesture.

To anyone watching, he was just a man saying goodbye to a friend.

Only I saw it for what it was.

Naveen walked away unhurried, his shoes clicking softly on the wet asphalt.

I watched him go until he disappeared behind a row of parked cars.

"Was that your friend?" Sam asked from the backseat, craning her neck to look.

Her voice was so bright, so unbearably trusting.

"No," I said. I opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. “Not even close.”

"But he helped us!" she said. "I could share my cookie moon with him too."

"Not everyone who helps," I said quietly, "is safe."

Sam frowned, confused, but nodded solemnly the way kids do when they don’t understand but don’t want to argue.

I started the engine. The windshield wipers squealed against the wet glass.

I couldn’t shake the way his hand lingered. The way the car felt smaller after he touched it.

"Alright, baby girl," I said, my voice too bright, too brittle. "Let's get you home."