Her head turns sharply at that, and the tension in her posture deepens as though the number itself carries a danger she would rather avoid. For several seconds she says nothing at all, and that silence stretches long enough to confirm what my instincts are already telling me. When she finally answers, the word comes out tight but unmistakable.
“Two.”
The number drops into my mind and immediately triggers the calculation that has been waiting behind it. Two years old, which means conception roughly two years and nine months ago, which means the timeline overlaps with a particular stretch of my life that I remember with uncomfortable clarity. I run that arithmetic again just to be certain I am not inventing patterns that do not exist, but the numbers stubbornly refuse to rearrange themselves into something less unsettling.
“That’s interesting,” I say quietly, though the understatement feels absurd even as it leaves my mouth.
“You’re imagining things,” she replies, turning toward me now with a look that tries very hard to be dismissive but fails to hide the tension behind it.
“Am I?” I ask, and the question is not really rhetorical because I would very much like the answer to be yes.
“Yes,” she says firmly, and for a moment we simply stand there measuring each other in silence while the noise of the compound drifts faintly through the corridor.
I drag a hand across the back of my neck, trying to decide whether pushing harder will reveal anything useful or simply force her to shut down completely, and the conflict inside my head grows louder with every passing second. Part of me wants to demand a straight answer, to press the logic of the timelineuntil the truth falls out whether she intends to reveal it or not, but another part recognizes that Tilda has never responded well to being cornered.
Finally I release a slow breath and straighten away from the wall. “All right,” I say, the word leaving my mouth with reluctant acceptance even though my brain is still chewing on the same unresolved calculation.
Her shoulders ease by the smallest fraction, the kind of subtle shift most people would miss but which stands out clearly to someone who has spent years learning how she moves when she feels threatened. Before either of us can continue the conversation, the compound loudspeakers crackle overhead with the familiar voice of Captain Photonic announcing the next challenge briefing. The interruption arrives with the perfect timing of a theatrical cue, and for a moment neither of us speaks as the announcement echoes through the corridor.
The psychological challenge arena turns out to be a carefully constructed trap disguised as a therapy session, complete with soft lighting, circular seating arrangements, and a massive overhead screen displaying the words RELATIONSHIP TRUTH TEST in letters large enough to make the intention unmistakable. The room buzzes with nervous energy as contestants file in, many of them already whispering arguments before the first question even appears, and the entire setup radiates the unmistakable scent of manipulation. I glance sideways at Tilda as we take our seats, noticing the way she scans the room with analytical focus while clearly trying to ignore the unfinished conversation still hovering between us.
“Plan?” I murmur under my breath once the moderator begins explaining the rules.
“Don’t engage,” she replies quietly, her gaze still fixed on the screen.
“That sounds suspiciously mature,” I say, allowing a faint smile to touch my voice.
“I know that’s difficult for you,” she answers without looking at me.
The first question appears overhead, phrased in exactly the kind of provocative language designed to ignite resentment between former partners, and the reaction around the room is immediate. Several couples begin arguing almost instantly, voices rising as the producers clearly hoped they would, while cameras drift closer to capture every sharp word and emotional outburst. I glance at Tilda again, remembering the tension that flared between us only minutes earlier, and then I make a decision that surprises even me.
“Probably me,” I say when the moderator asks which partner bears more responsibility for the relationship failing, and the admission feels oddly easy once it leaves my mouth.
Tilda turns her head sharply, clearly not expecting that answer, but I simply shrug and lean back in my chair as if the conclusion has been obvious all along. The moderator nods approvingly and marks something on a tablet, and the audience reaction meter above the stage ticks upward as if cooperation itself is a rare commodity in a room full of wounded exes.
The next question appears almost immediately, this one aimed directly at parenting competence, and the timing of it lands with uncomfortable precision given the conversation we just had. I feel Tilda go completely still beside me, the way someone freezes when a spotlight suddenly swings in their direction, and without allowing myself time to reconsider I answer before she can say a word.
“Tilda,” I say simply, gesturing toward her with a small, matter-of-fact motion that draws a ripple of laughter from the audience. “I can barely keep a cactus alive.”
For a moment she just looks at me, clearly unsure whether I am joking or deflecting something far more complicated, but the moderator’s enthusiastic approval quickly pushes the round forward to the next question. As the challenge continues the pattern repeats itself again and again, each prompt designed to provoke resentment while we calmly sidestep the trap with careful agreement and quiet humor. Around us the arguments grow louder as other couples fall into exactly the kind of televised conflict the producers hoped for, but the more chaos erupts across the room the more deliberate our cooperation becomes.
By the time the final results appear on the overhead screen, the audience approval ratings have climbed sharply in our favor, and the cheers from the crowd carry a tone of genuine enthusiasm rather than simple spectacle. Tilda exhales slowly beside me as the scoreboard confirms that we have advanced safely to the next stage, and when she glances toward me I notice the subtle shift in her expression that suggests she is reassessing something she previously believed about me.
For my part, I lean back in my chair and watch the room settle around us while the unresolved question about that child continues turning quietly in the background of my mind. The realization that finally takes shape is both frustrating and strangely enlightening, because it becomes obvious that pressing Tilda for answers will only drive her further into silence. If the truth is going to emerge, it will not come from cornering her in a hallway or demanding explanations she is not ready to give. It will come from patience, from the slow accumulation of trust that makes secrets harder to hold.
That realization might be inconvenient for a man whose entire life has been built on impulsive decisions and dramatic gestures, but as I watch Tilda sitting beside me with her arms folded and her expression thoughtful, I recognize with a quietcertainty that patience may be the only strategy that actually works.
CHAPTER 15
TILDA
The lounge after an elimination challenge carries the strange emotional texture of a victory that doesn’t feel entirely like one. Surviving means relief, but it also means watching other contestants quietly disappear from the compound, their rooms emptied and their names erased from the rankings board as if they were never here at all. Tonight the production staff has dimmed the lights and turned the music louder in an effort to manufacture celebration, but the mood is complicated in a way no amount of cheerful lighting can fix. The air smells faintly of grilled meat, synthetic citrus drinks, and the metallic undertone that always lingers in this place after a physically brutal challenge. Around the room, clusters of contestants talk too loudly, laugh a little too hard, and cling to the fragile comfort of having made it through another round alive.
I sit near the end of one of the curved lounge couches with a glass of sparkling something in my hand, though I have no intention of drinking it. My muscles still ache from the elimination course we barely survived, and every time I close my eyes I can still feel the violent jolt of the final obstacle under my boots. Adrenaline is a strange thing; it burns through thebody during a crisis and then leaves behind a hollow, humming exhaustion that feels almost like a fever. I try to focus on the music drifting through the room and the low murmur of voices around me, but my attention keeps wandering across the lounge until it settles—inevitably—on the tall figure leaning against the bar.
Bron stands there with the casual posture of a man who has never met a room he couldn’t eventually charm into liking him. The bartender laughs at something he says, and he flashes that familiar half-crooked grin that used to send entire concert crowds into hysterics. He has rolled the sleeves of his shirt halfway up his forearms, revealing the faint gleam of gold scales that shimmer subtly under the warm lounge lights. For a moment I allow myself to watch him the way I used to years ago, studying the relaxed confidence in his shoulders and the way he carries himself like gravity itself occasionally forgets to apply to him.
Then he turns his head slightly and our eyes meet.
