Page 114 of A Sinful Gravity

What if she's mine?

I'd even contacted a discreet private doctor, ready to get Laila's DNA without Luna knowing. I'd wanted proof of a bond between us so badly it nearly drove me insane.

But I killed the idea.

Because I was scared. Scared that if it was true, Luna would run again over my distrust. Scared that if it wasn't, I'd start to feel distant from Laila.

More than that, if Laila really was mine, and Luna had come back, and we'd already become intimate again, why would she hide it?

Over time, the question of "biological" stopped mattering. When Laila called me Cassian with that sweet voice, the label became irrelevant.

I liked her. Liked her scrunched-up nose when she was mad, her garbled retellings of Oz, her stubborn streak that reminded me so much of Luna. Even if she wasn't mine by blood, so what?

In this ruthless world, she was the only one who liked me for me. Not for being "Mr. King."

She was just Laila. And I'd give her the world. Not because of who she was, just because I loved her.

I pulled my gaze back and kept driving.

The shop sat on a quiet street, the window full of princess dresses and tiaras. Pink light spilled out, like a tiny fairy tale world. Laila pressed her nose against the glass, staring.

"Cassian, look! That one! The blue one! Like Elsa!"

"Wanna go in?"

She nodded frantically and dragged me inside.

The shop was bigger than it looked. Walls covered in photos—little princesses, fairies, pirates. A small vanity in the corner, loaded with glittery bottles. The air smelled faintly of strawberries—some kid-friendly makeup.

A girl with a high ponytail greeted us, smiling.

"Welcome! Mr. King? Are we styling this little princess today?"

"Yeah."

She crouched to Laila's level. "What do you want to be?"

Laila thought hard. "A princess. A singing princess."

"Perfect! A stage princess look—hair up, little crown, glitter on your face, and you can pick a nail polish color."

Laila turned to me, eyes shining.

"Cassian, can I?"

"Yeah."

She beamed and followed the stylist to the vanity. The chair was too tall, so they added a cushion. Laila climbed up, legs swinging, waiting patiently.

I pulled up a chair and watched.

Laila's golden curls spilled over her shoulders, catching the light. The stylist combed through them gently—they were so soft the brush glided right through.

"Your daughter has beautiful hair."

I didn't correct her. My chest swelled.

"Up or down?"