Page 86 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

I sat up, rubbed my face, heard footsteps and voices from the living room.

"...okay, I understand. Yes, I'll head over now..."

Mia's voice. She was on the phone. She sounded professional, efficient—completely different from the woman on the couch last night.

I got up quietly, cracked the door open, and peeked out.

She stood in the entryway wearing a crisp white blazer over navy wide-leg pants, hair pulled into a sleek low ponytail, simple gold earrings. She looked—damn, she looked breathtaking.

She hung up and turned, saw me.

Her expression didn't change. "You're up?"

"Yeah."

"Fresh toothbrush and towels in the bathroom. Coffee and toast in the kitchen. Eat and leave. I'm in a hurry."

She picked up her purse from the table, opened the door, and walked out.

The door closed behind her, leaving me alone in the empty living room.

I stood there, listening to her footsteps fade down the hallway until they disappeared completely.

Then I sighed and headed to the bathroom.

After washing up and choking down two burnt pieces of toast, I stood in the middle of the living room, unsure what to do.

She said to leave after eating.

But I didn't want to leave.

I knew I should. She set the terms, I agreed—it was that simple. But I just—I just couldn't make myself walk out that door.

My gaze swept the apartment. The living room was small but cozy. Gray couch, wooden coffee table, abstract paintings on the walls—probably picked up at some secondhand market. In the corner stood an upright piano, sheet music scattered across the lid.

I walked over and looked at the manuscripts. Her handwriting—same as five years ago, messy but powerful, with corrections here and there, little note markings everywhere.

I picked one up and read.

"You said you loved me, but your love was a cage.

I learned to fly inside it,

then I flew away."

I set the paper down, feeling something lodge in my chest.

I kept wandering the living room. The bookshelf held rows of CDs and vinyl records, mostly classic rock and jazz—she still loved old things, that hadn't changed. Under the TV stand sat a stack of children's books. "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," "Guess How Much I Love You," "Winnie the Pooh"—Lily's.

I crouched down and picked up "Guess How Much I Love You," opening to the first page. In wobbly crayon letters: "Lily's book."

My fingers traced the letters. My eyes burned again.

I put the book down, stood, and walked to the window. Outside was a small balcony with potted plants—mint, basil, and blooming lavender. She used to grow lavender in her little courtyard at the palace, too.

Before I ordered it torn up.

I closed my eyes, breathed deep, and pushed down the surge of guilt.