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“What’s your name?”

“Anya,” she says proudly, clutching her tablet tighter.

“I’m Andrei.”

She studies me for a second. “Are you my Mommy’s friend?”

“Yeah,” I reply, the word feeling heavy on my tongue. “I am.”

She watches me a moment longer, then shrugs and turns back to her cartoons.

I can’t breathe. It can’t be what I’m thinking.

But when I look from the child to Rosie, the guilt and terror written all over her face tell me everything I need to know.

It is exactly what I’m thinking.

“How old is she?” I ask, my voice low and rough.

Rosie swallows hard. “Three.”

I do the math instantly in my head. Four years ago. The night we met. The timing lines up perfectly. Oh my fucking God!

I open my mouth, but Rosie gives the smallest, desperate shake of her head.

“Please,” she whispers.

I inhale sharply through my nose, fighting the storm raging inside me.

“On your feet,” I grit. “Now.”

She hesitates.

“Rosie, I'd advise you not to test my patience. This flight hasn’t taken off yet because of you,” I add, voice harder now. “So you better get off now.”

She glances around the cabin. Passengers are starting to stare, murmuring, phones subtly pointing in our direction. The flight attendants look increasingly nervous.

Rosie looks back at me. I quirk one brow, daring her to argue.

She exhales shakily, stands up, and reaches for their carry-on bag. I grab it before she can.

We start moving down the aisle. Anya looks confused, twisting in her mother’s arms.

“Mommy, where are we going?”

I watch as Rosie carries her, whispering something soft and soothing into the little girl’s ear that I can’t quite hear. Anya calms a little, but still looks uncertain.

My mind is spinning with a thousand thoughts as we exit the plane and walk through the terminal.

A daughter.

I have a daughter.

I want to demand answers. But right now, with Anya’s curious eyes on me, I keep my mouth shut and my expression controlled.

The moment we step inside my house, I crouch down to Anya’s level. She watches me with those big, mismatched eyes that are so painfully familiar.

“I have to go talk to your mommy for a minute,” I tell her gently. I point toward Daria, my housekeeper, who I called on the way here to let her know we were coming back with a child.