The actor who'd handed her the award was suddenly beside her.
"Come," he murmured. "Take the back exit. My car's out there. You shouldn't face that alone. I'll send my bodyguards with you."
"Thank you," she managed, or maybe mouthed, because the sound barely existed. The simplest, rawest acknowledgment of a man who, for some reason, had chosen to see her humanity when everyone else saw clickbait.
Her chin trembled, betraying her composure.
God, Daniel hadn't even looked back. Not once.
The actor—she vaguely recalled his name now, Brian or something, shifted closer, as if he sensed the tremor beneath her stillness. His hand brushed her elbow. Just a touch. Warm. Steady.
"Breathe," he said softly. "Trust me, they'll find another scandal to chase in ten minutes. Probably mine."
Backstage was chaos in slow motion: PR reps barking into phones, assistants dartin, the muffled roar of the audience trying to decide if they were witnessing art, sin, or a nervous breakdown.
Security flanked her, two men in black suits.
She climbed into the car. Her hands shook as the door shut behind her, sealing her in soft leather and silence.
Daniel had taken the car they'd come in.
The sting was intimate, deeper than humiliation. It was love, curdled.
The SUV hummed to life. She leaned back, chest heaving, mascara smudged. Outside, paparazzi lights still flickered.
Inside, she felt the first tear break loose.
Her phone began to ring.
She fumbled the phone out with shaking fingers, praying and dreading at once. The screen flashed Nanny Celine. Her stomach dropped. "Hello?"
"Madam! Something terrible has happened! Leo—Leo has been kidnapped! They just came and ripped him out of my hands!"
Kidnapped.
"Wait—what? What do you mean kidnapped? Who? When? How?!" She could hear herself spiraling, a woman clawing at reality and getting nothing back.
"They broke in through the back door, Madam!" Celine sobbed. "Two men—masked!
They didn't say anything. They just—just grabbed him and ran!"
The air in Eva's lungs froze, turned to glass, shattered.
Her mind went white.
Her baby boy.
"No, no, no…You're lying. You have to be lying. This—this can't be real. Is this a prank?
Tell me this is some kind of sick, twisted prank!"
"I swear on my life, Madam!" the nanny wailed. "They took him! I tried—I tried to fight
them! They shoved me!"
Eva's scream tore through the vehicle. The driver flinched, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel, and slammed the brakes in reflex. The SUV jolted violently, tires screeching against asphalt. "TAKE ME HOME!" she shouted. "NOW!"
Her entire body folded in on itself. She doubled over, clutching her scalp, nails biting into her hairline as if she could claw the nightmare out by its roots. Her pulse was everywhere—her throat, her ears, her wrists—a frantic drumbeat of disbelief.
First, her dignity—dragged naked across a room of vultures.
Then, her husband—walking away without a backward glance.
And now her son.
Her baby. Her heart. Her Leo.
The phone slipped from her hand, landing on the SUV floor with a thud. She stared at it as if it were a detonator that had just gone off, as if the sound itself had split her world in two.
Her lungs seized, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. "No," she whispered. "No! Not my son… not my Leo…"
Her trembling hands rose to her mouth, fingers pressing hard. Her mascara streaked down her cheeks, black rivers cutting through foundation, leaving her looking haunted and beautiful in the same breath.
*****
Six Years Later
The wheels of the plane hadn't even kissed the tarmac before Eva felt it—that deep, bone-deep tremor she hadn't felt in six years. It started in her ribs, a restless vibration that no amount of self-discipline or Parisian therapy could exorcise. The plane jolted slightly, tires screeching as it slowed along the runway, and Eva gripped the armrest.
She exhaled slowly, reaching for her hoodie drawstrings and tugging them snug beneath her chin. The sunglasses came next—oversized, dark.
A car idled near the exit. The driver stepped forward and opened the back door for her without a word.
She slid inside.
Then, as if guided by muscle memory, she reached into her purse. Her fingers brushed against receipts, a passport, until they found the photograph—creased, fragile, holy.
A baby boy, barely three months old, smiled up at her from the faded print. His gummy grin was wide, one dimple deeper than the other, hands mid-clap. The corners were frayed, the paper soft with years of desperate handling. The colors had dulled, but the memory burned bright enough to hurt.
Eva ran her thumb over the baby's face, tracing the soft curve of his cheek.
She was home again.
And this time, she wasn't leaving without her son.
"I'm coming for you, buddy," she whispered, pressing the photo to her lips. The paper was warm now, her breath ghosting over the faded smile. "Mummy's coming for you." She closed her eyes, forcing the tremor in her chest back down where it belonged—under the armor.
The driver turned off the main road, steering the SUV through quieter streets where the noise faded into soft traffic murmurs and the rhythmic flutter of palm leaves brushing against low rooftops.
The SUV finally eased to a stop in front of a narrow café squeezed between a vintage bookstore and a florist spilling with wild blooms.
Eva took a deep breath. Her pulse quickened from anticipation. She pushed her sunglasses higher on her nose and stepped out. The door of the café jingled.
Her eyes swept across the room. Couples hunched over laptops, a woman feeding a toddler, a group of college kids arguing about politics. Normal people. Safe people. Until her gaze found him.
Brian.
He sat in the far corner booth. Dark hair a little longer than she remembered, jaw shadowed, and—of course—sunglasses indoors.
She approached. He rose as soon as he saw her, and in one smooth motion, pulled her into his arms.