Chapter 7

RAIN'S POV

Phi comes home like he promised, seventeen minutes sharp. I don't even have to tell him where she is. He heads straight to her room like his heart's tethered to hers, and when I follow behind, I see him already seated on the bed, gathering her into his arms gently.

"Hi, tiger," he murmurs, voice soft, thumb brushing under her eye. "You okay? You're scaring me and Papa."

Kaia stirs, eyes barely open, and she shakes her head just a little, pressing her face into his chest.

"I'm just tired," she says, almost whispering. "I wanna rest my eyes."

Phi holds her tighter. He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Just rocks her slowly, gently, his palm smoothing down her spine again and again like it's the only thing he can do to keep his panic at bay.

But I see it. In his eyes. I feel it mirrored in my own chest.

I already called the doctor before he even got home, and she arrives a few minutes later, ushered in by one of the house staff.

Phi doesn't put Kaia down. He holds her while the doctor checks her over. Temperature. Pulse. Chest. Eyes. Reflexes. Basic cognition. Everything is... fine.

Too fine.

"Maybe she's just overstimulated," the doctor says gently. "A lot of children hit this wall once school becomes more structured. Maybe her class schedule is a little demanding."

Phi and I lock eyes.

"She's five," he says, flatly.

The doctor nods, professionally unfazed. "I know, but even at that age, long hours, structured activities, new rules—"

"What kind of curriculum exhausts a five-year-old to the point of shutting down emotionally?" I ask, sharper than I meant.

"She's always been energetic," Phi adds. "Smart, social, stubborn. We know our daughter."

"She's barely spoken all day," I say. "She doesn't want music, her toys, her crayons, nothing."

"She doesn't even want stickers," Phi finishes grimly.

The doctor sighs. "Physically, she's perfectly healthy. But if you're worried, it might be worth observing her environment. School. Classmates. Teachers. Make sure she's not feeling pressured or excluded."

I nod slowly, jaw clenched.

Because I already know what I'm going to do tomorrow.

I'm walking into that school.And I'm going to find out what the fuck is going on.

***

Kaia's hand is tucked into mine all the way from the car to the front doors of the school. She walks like she always does—shoulders back, hair brushed neat, her favorite little pink satchel bouncing against her back. But she's quiet. Still too quiet.

Phi wanted to come. He was halfway into his black button-up and already barking orders at Win to clear his schedule. But I stopped him.

This is my job, too. Our job, yes, but this is why I stay close, why I'm the one who knows when Kaia's smiles are just a little too still.

She gives me a brave look as we approach her classroom, squeezes my hand. "You don't need to come in, Papa. I'm fine now."

I crouch to her level, brushing a curl behind her ear. "I know you are, baby. But Papa just needs to speak to your teacher real quick, okay?"

Her eyes flick—just briefly—to the classroom. And I catch it.

That one second of hesitation.

The barest tightening of her mouth.

I smooth a hand over her shoulder. "Go on, I'll be right behind you."

She nods, shoulders squared, and walks into her classroom.

I follow, slower. My eyes scan the room.

Kids are unpacking bags. Hanging up coats. The room is cheerful enough, colorful walls and plastic bins and paint projects drying on the side table. And then I see her.

Miss Kora.

Early thirties, too-high bun, a tailored blouse trying too hard to be casual. She's directing a boy toward his cubby with a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

I don't bother softening mine.

"Miss Kora?" I say, calm but flat. "A word, please?"

She turns, startled. Then her face shifts into something professional. "Khun Rain, hello—"

I gesture toward the hallway.

I don't smile.

"Now."

I cross my arms.

"Is something going on with—or being done to—Kaia?"

Miss Kora blinks, then smiles. Too easily. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"She's been coming home all week... quiet. Tired. Not herself. And all she says when we ask is that she's tired."

Her smile flickers, but she chuckles. "Oh, she's not the only one. You're not the only parent who's mentioned it either. We've recently added a few new topics to the curriculum—nothing too heavy, just early exposure to foundational concepts—and it's been a bit more tasking on the kids."

I stare.

She keeps going. "And we've also been encouraging more peer interaction to avoid early clique behavior, so there's more groupwork. That can be draining, even for the more sociable children. But if it's too much, we can certainly reduce Kaia's workload. Let her ease into it more gently if she needs time."

I glance toward the classroom. Kaia's laughing softly now, sitting beside Lily, her best friend. Her curls bounce as she tilts her head, completely absorbed in whatever they're talking about.

Right now she looks fine. Normal.

But I know her.

I know how her energy comes in waves and when she's dimmer, it's for a reason.

Still...

The world isn't soft. And we've built her a golden home, yes, but she'll have to learn how to walk through the rest of it. Especially as she grows older.

I exhale. "Don't exclude her from whatever her mates are doing. Not yet. But watch her."

Miss Kora's smile twitches, becoming tight again. "Of course."

"If she doesn't want to do something, don't force her. I mean that."

She nods. "Understood."

I glance back at Kaia one more time before walking away. I know she's strong. But if anything dims that light permanently, I will burn this school to the ground.

...

I slip into the driver's seat and the moment I shut the door, the car screen lights up—Phi's name flashing. He couldn't wait.

I hit the connect button. "Hey."

"You out?" His voice is taut, lower than usual.

"Yeah, just got in the car." I lean back, one hand on the wheel. "I spoke to Miss Kora."

"And?"

"She said they added some new topics to their curriculum. More groupwork too, to avoid clique behavior. She said other kids are tired as well. Offered to reduce Kaia's workload if necessary."

Phi's quiet for a beat. Then a short, displeased hum."That doesn't explain the shift," he says. "Kaia doesn't get tired like that. Not without telling us why. And she doesn't just sleep in past us unless something's wrong."

"I know." My jaw tightens. "We checked her. No bruises. No crying. No change in appetite. Just that... tiredness she keeps mentioning."

Phi exhales slowly. I can hear him thinking. "I don't like it."

"Me neither." I tap my fingers against the wheel. "I told Kora to watch her. Told her if Kaia doesn't want to do something, she doesn't have to. She gave me one of those tight teacher smiles."

He mutters something in Thai, sharp and clipped.

"I'll handle it if it goes on another week," I say. "We're not letting her carry something alone she doesn't even have the words for yet."

"No," Phi agrees. "We're not."

And I know him. That tone means he's already making a list of everyone to interrogate if this continues.

"I'll pick her up after," I add. "See if anything feels off again."

"Okay," he says. "Thanks, baby."

I nod even though he can't see it. "She's our whole world, Phi."

"Exactly why I won't hesitate to destroy anyone dimming her."

"I'll call you after pickup."

"You better."

The line clicks off. I sit there a moment longer before starting the car.

...

I pull into the familiar little street where Sky's bakery sits, bright blue awning fluttering in the breeze. The scent of butter and sugar is already in the air before I even open the car door. I park and walk in—and blink.

Because there he is.

Papa. Sitting neatly at the counter with a cup of tea and a half-eaten tart in front of him. Sky's behind the counter, grinning like he's already said something inappropriate.

I raise an eyebrow. "Am I interrupting your father-son bonding time?"

Sky snorts. "Technically, I already have parents. But I won't say no to an upgrade."

Papa hums and sips his tea, then looks over at me with that same graceful calm that's impossible to read. "Sky makes good company. I like his mouth."

I blink. Sky beams.

"That came out wrong," Papa adds.

"No, it didn't," Sky says, clearly pleased.

I sigh, walking toward them. "So what—you adopting him now?"

"If he behaves."

"Zero chance," I mutter.

Sky throws a sugar packet at me.

I sit across from them and the smile drops from my face as I say, "I came from Kaia's school."

Sky straightens. Papa's eyes sharpen.

"She's still not herself. Says she's tired, that's all. Her teacher says it's the new workload and group stuff—nothing major. But Phi and I..." I trail off, then exhale. "She's five. We know her. Something's off."

Sky frowns. "You think the other kids are still giving her shit?"

"Doubt it," I say. "The boys who said stuff were pulled out. Their dads... got spoken to."

Papa hums like he knows exactly what that means.

"But Kaia's still not bouncing like usual," I finish.

Papa sets his tea down. "You want me to speak with her?"

"I might," I say honestly. "She opens up with you sometimes when she doesn't with us. I just don't want her thinking she has to hold anything in."

Sky leans on the counter, serious now. "Want me to bake something special? I can come by after school."

"She'd like that," I nod. "Thanks."

Papa watches me for a second, then says, "You're doing everything right, Rain. Children sometimes take time to process emotions they can't name. But she has two parents who see her. That matters more than anything."

And for a moment, I do feel a little lighter.

PHAYU'S POV

I get home earlier than normal.

I step into the room and the air feels heavier than usual. It's quiet not the comfortable kind, the kind that pulls at my chest.

Kaia's in bed, curled on Rain's lap, her tiny fingers absentmindedly stroking the hem of his shirt. She doesn't look up when I enter. Rain does. And fuck, he looks tired.

Not just the usual end-of-day tired. The kind that settles in your bones when worry has nowhere to go.

I don't say anything at first. Just walk closer, crouch down beside the bed, run my hand gently over Kaia's curls. Her lashes flutter, her eyes peek open, and she gives me a small, tired smile.

"Dada," she whispers.

"Hi, tiger." I press a kiss to her temple. "Can I hold you now?"

She blinks up at Rain like she's checking if that's okay. He kisses her cheek. "Go on, baby. Dada's here."

She doesn't say anything. Just crawls slowly off his lap into my arms, tucking herself into my chest like a sleepy kitten. My throat clenches. She's warm, soft, and small in a way that makes me want to burn the world down just to protect her.

Rain stands, brushing his hand down my arm. "I'll get dinner ready."

I catch his wrist before he leaves and tug him gently closer. "I'll have her now," I murmur, "Go rest a bit after. I'll call you when she's down."

He nods once, quietly. Then looks at her, then at me. His hand lingers over my back before he walks out, and I feel it—the trust, the relief, the worry. Everything he's holding onto.

I look down at Kaia.

"You okay, baby?"

She doesn't answer right away. Just snuggles deeper. I don't push. I rock her gently, breathing her in. My phone buzzes, a reply from the school security.

Nothing unusual. No threats. Just... apparently she's been helping her teacher a lot. Looking after classmates. They say it like it's a good thing.

But she's five. She shouldn't be helping. She should be laughing. Loud. Wild. Bright.

I press my cheek to her hair and whisper, "You don't have to be anything for anyone, tiger. You just get to be our little girl."

And maybe she's not listening. Or maybe she is. Either way, I keep holding her. For as long as it takes.

She shifts in my lap, tugging at the neckline of my sweatshirt like she's trying to keep her hands busy. Her voice is small when she says it.

"Dada... Miss Kora wants to see you."

I still.

My palm rubs slow, steady circles over her back, even though my whole body goes alert. "Yeah?" I say softly. "Did she tell Papa that?"

She shakes her head against my chest. "No. She said only you. Not Papa."

A long breath leaves me. Not out of calm. The opposite. Every instinct is flaring. "Why not Papa, baby?"

Kaia frowns. Looks up at me. "She said Papa is soft." Her lips purse, like she's repeating something she doesn't fully get. "She said Papa won't understand."

My grip tightens around her. Not enough to scare her, just enough to ground myself.

"She made you keep it a secret?" I ask, voice low.

She nods slowly. "She said just until you came. Because you're smart and strong and you'll fix it."

What the fuck.

I press a kiss to her forehead to steady myself. "Tiger, did you do something at school? Anything at all?"

"No, Dada," she says quickly, wide-eyed. "I promise."

That only makes my chest tighten. "Then why does she want to talk to me?"

"I don't know." She shrugs. "She just said it's important."

Important enough to exclude Rain. Important enough to make our daughter keep a secret.

Now I'm pissed.

I hold her tighter. "You did nothing wrong, Kaia. Nothing. And Papa's not soft, he's strong and smart in ways even Miss Kora will never understand. You hear me?"

She nods, serious, her hand curling into my shirt again. "I know."

"Good." I kiss her temple again, heart pounding. "I'll handle it."

And I will. Whatever Miss Kora thinks she's doing—she made one mistake already: underestimating Rain. The second was using my daughter as a pawn.

Let's see how many more she survives.

She nods again, but it's the kind of nod that feels automatic—like she understands me, but I need to make sure it sticks.

So I gently lift her chin, make sure those big eyes are on mine.

"Listen to me, tiger," I say again, firm but low, every word like a promise. "You trust me and Papa?"

"Yes, Dada."

"You always tell us everything, okay? Always." I tuck a curl behind her ear. "If anybody tells you to keep a secret from me or Papa, even if they sound nice, even if they say it's okay—you come to us. No matter what."

She bites her lip, frowning now, little brows drawn in thought.

"What if they say it's for a surprise?" she whispers.

I almost smile, but I don't. Not now.

"If it's a surprise for something good, like a birthday or a party, and you still feel okay about it—maybe that's fine. But if it ever feels weird, or if it makes you worried, or you have to hide something from us?" I touch her heart with my palm. "You come straight to me or Papa. Always."

Her little hand comes up and presses over mine. "Okay, Dada."

"You're never in trouble for telling us the truth. Never. That's our job—to protect you. But we can't if we don't know what's happening."

She nods again, more sure now. "I promise."

"Good girl," I murmur, kissing her forehead again. "That's my brave girl."

And I hug her a little tighter, jaw clenched behind her shoulder. I'm already planning how I'm going to have this conversation with Rain tonight. And then I'm going to very calmly visit Kaia's school tomorrow and make sure Miss Kora understands exactly what happens when you try to manipulate my daughter.

No more secrets.

Not from me.

And not from her papa.

...

Dinner's quiet.

Too quiet.

Kaia went to bed early again, barely touching her food. She's been so tired lately, and the weight of not knowing why is pressing down hard on both of us. I've been watching Rain across the table, how he picks at his plate, barely eats, keeps glancing toward the hallway like he's listening for her even in sleep.

I can't take it anymore.

I push my chair back with a soft scrape and move over to him. "Come here," I say gently.

He looks up, startled, eyes a little glassy. "I'm okay, Phi—"

"No," I cut him off, tugging him into my lap. "You're not."

He doesn't fight it. He just folds into me the way he always does when he's tired or scared or trying not to fall apart. I wrap both arms around him, hold him close. And that's when I feel it—the trembling in his shoulders, the way his fingers clench in my shirt, the hitched breath against my neck.

He starts to cry.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just quiet, aching tears, the kind that come from helplessness, from loving something too much and not knowing how to fix it.

I hold him tighter, arms locked around his waist as he folds into me. His breath shudders against my throat, warm and broken, and I run one hand up his back, slow and steady.

"I know," I murmur, pressing my lips into his hair. "I know, baby."

His hands fist in my shirt. He doesn't say anything else for a moment. Doesn't need to. I feel it all in the way he clings.

My rain. My light. My heart that always breaks first when Kaia's hurting.

I shift a little, angling him more fully in my lap, letting him curl as close as he needs. I hold the back of his head. I don't try to fix it with words—not yet. Not when he's already carrying too much.

"I don't know what's going on with our baby, Phi," he whispers, voice cracked and shaking. "And I don't know how to help."

My throat tightens. I press my lips to his hair, run a soothing hand down his spine.

"We will help," I murmur. "We're going to find out what's wrong, Rain. I promise you that."

"I'll go to the school tomorrow," I add quietly.  "I want to know why her teacher doesn't want to talk to you. I want to see the people around her with my own eyes. I won't scare her—but I'm not going to let this continue."

Rain swallows hard. "She said she's just tired. That she's fine."

"She's five," I remind him gently. "She shouldn't be this tired. She shouldn't be hiding things from us."

He shakes his head. "She's never like this. She tells me everything. And now she's hiding something and it's like...I don't know what I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong," I say firmly, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes.

His arms tighten around me. "I feel like I failed her. I'm her Papa, Phi—she always tells me everything."

"You didn't fail her. We've done everything right. That's why this feels so off. Because something is off and we're gonna figure it out, someone else is fucking with our kid. And I'll find out who.."

Rain's eyes are wet and shining. "You think it's the school?"

"I think I don't trust anyone until I look them in the eye myself," I say. "She said her teacher asked for me specifically. Asked her to keep it a secret from you."

Rain's jaw tightens. "She told me we don't keep secrets. That she trusts us."

"And she does," I say softly. "She told me. She just doesn't understand yet. That's our job. To protect her. So tomorrow I'll go. And if I find anything wrong—"

"You'll burn the whole place down," he finishes with a weak smile.

"I will," I say with a smirk, brushing a thumb under his eye. "So you can breathe again."

He sniffles softly, leaning back just a little to look at me. His eyes are rimmed red, lashes damp, lips trembling. I cup his jaw.

"We're her parents," I say. "She's got both of us. And we're gonna fix it. Together."

Rain nods again. He still looks worried. But I see a little less fear in his eyes.

"I'm just scared," he admits.

I press my forehead to his. "Me too. But not enough to stop me."

He breathes out a shaky laugh. "You sound terrifying."

"I am," I say, voice low. "Especially when it comes to you. And her."

He leans forward and rests his forehead against mine. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being her dad. For being mine."

I kiss him slow. "Always."

RAIN'S POV

The next morning, Kaia's screams echo off the closet walls and lodge straight into my chest.

She's crying, kicking her feet, refusing to wear the dress I laid out. Her curls are damp, cheeks blotchy, and her little fists are balled at her sides. I kneel in front of her, still holding the towel I used to dry her off, frozen by the sharp sting of her words.

"I don't want to go to school!" she yells, voice cracking. "I hate it there! I hate you, Papa!"

The last part knocks the breath out of me.

She doesn't mean it. She's five. But I still flinch like she struck me.

I set the towel aside and inhale slowly, fighting the burn behind my eyes. "Kaia," I say softly, "why don't you want to go? What's wrong, baby? Talk to me."

"I said I don't want to!" she sobs, backing into the corner of the room, little chest heaving. "I just wanna stay home. With you and Dada."

I move toward her slowly, crouch low, keep my voice gentle. "You love school, my love. You love your friends and Lily and your sparkly markers—"

"Not anymore!" she yells, tears pouring now. "I don't care about markers! I don't care about Lily! I hate school, Papa!"

I reach for her but she swats my hand away. I sit on the floor, heart clenching so hard I don't know what to do with it. This isn't her. Kaia doesn't scream. She doesn't hit. She doesn't hate.

Something's wrong. Not just tiredness. Not just being overwhelmed.

I glance at the clock. If Phi wasn't already outside dealing with this morning's briefing, I'd call him in here right now. But for now, it's me. I have to get through to her.

I rub my face, take a breath, and try again. "Okay," I say softly. "Okay, no school today. We'll stay home. Just you and me."

Her sobs quiet a little, but she doesn't move.

"Come here," I whisper, holding my arms out. "Please, Kaia. Let Papa hold you."

She hesitates—then runs into my arms so hard it knocks me back, and she clings to me, soaking my shirt with tears.

"I don't hate you," she cries. "I love you, Papa. I just—I just don't wanna go."

I press my face into her wet hair, heart shattering into a thousand pieces. "I know, baby. I know." I rock her gently. "You never have to say sorry. We'll figure this out, okay? Me and Dada. We'll make everything better. I promise."

Because whatever this is, it's bigger than a tantrum. And she's asking for help the only way she knows how.

And we're going to listen.

Phi bursts into the closet like a storm barely held back—hair tousled, shirt flying, eyes wide and sharp with worry.

"I heard her shouting," he says, voice tight as he scans the room—sees us both on the floor, me with Kaia clinging to my chest and tears streaming down my face.

He softens instantly. "Rain..."

Kaia turns and sees him, and her tiny body crumples further, wracked with fresh sobs. "Dada, I yelled at Papa—I said I hate him, but I don't—I don't hate Papa, I don't—I love him so much"

My arms wrap tighter around her. "Baby, it's okay—"

"No it's not!" she wails, and then she's crawling off my lap, towards Phi,  who's already kneeling beside us. She throws herself into his arms, hiccuping, gasping for air between cries. "Papa's upset—I made Papa cry—I didn't mean it, Dada!"

Phi catches her, tucks her against his chest, and rocks her gently, his eyes never leaving mine. And something about the way he looks at me—like I'm breaking and he doesn't know which one of us to fix first—undoes me even more.

"I didn't yell at her," I whisper, throat raw. "I was just trying to dress her. She started crying and screaming and—I didn't even raise my voice—"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Phi says softly. "I know."

Kaia's still sobbing, her small hand reaching for my cheek, wiping my tears with her sleeve. "I'm sorry, Papa—I'm sorry I was mean—I'm just—I don't want to go—I don't want to go..."

"I know, sweetheart," I murmur, leaning into her touch, kissing her hand. "I know."

Phi shifts closer, wrapping an arm around both of us. "No one's mad at you, tiger. You're allowed to be upset. You're allowed to cry. But you don't have to carry anything alone. Not ever. You tell me and Papa everything, yeah?"

She nods against his chest, sniffling.

He kisses the top of her head. Then kisses mine.

And for a moment, we just stay like that—on the closet floor, wrapped up in each other, holding our daughter together like a promise:

Whatever's hurting her, we're going to find it.

...

Phi clears his entire schedule without a second thought.

"I'm not going anywhere today," he tells Isha on the phone, tone final. "Clear everything. Reschedule all the calsl. Postpone the inspection. Tell them I've got more important things."

And he does.

We stay home, just the three of us. Kaia curled between us on the couch, in a blanket burrito I wrapped her into, her curls all over the place and her eyes no longer red or heavy. She's back—our spark of light, our chatterbox, our storm.

Which only confirms it for me, something's happening at that school. Because after the wreck of a morning we had—her tears, my tears—after I held her and told her a hundred times that I wasn't mad and I know she didn't mean it and I know she loves me—she bloomed again. Like none of it ever happened.

And then of course Win shows up.

With a pink-handled training knife.

Kaia lights up like Christmas. "For me?!"

"Only to play," I say quickly, before she starts stabbing furniture again.

"And to learn," Win adds smugly. "You gotta know how to defend yourself, Kaibear."

Then Saifah walks in ten minutes later with a fucking bullet catalog.

"Okay this one's rubber, this one's plastic tip, this one—"

"She's five!" I hiss.

"She's ours," Phi says with a lazy smirk from where he's lying on the floor next to her, arms folded behind his head like this is the most relaxing day of his life.

Kaia is beaming, a knife in one hand, a fake bullet in the other, her feet tapping to a show she's half-watching.

I sigh and look at my husband. "I swear if she grows up thinking gunpowder is a seasoning—"

"She's already smarter than everyone in her class," Phi says, utterly unbothered.

And even though my heart still burns with quiet rage at whatever made our daughter afraid to tell us something, right now—at least for today—she's safe.

She's home.

...

The next morning, she's sticking to me like glue.

"Papa," she whispers for the third time in ten minutes, tugging on my sleeve while I button her coat. "I love you more than cake. More than stickers. More than Uncle Win's knives."

My heart twists. She's been saying it nonstop since yesterday, since she woke up this morning, like she's trying to erase yesterday morning, bury those words—I hate you—with a thousand declarations of love. And she's five. She doesn't even know how sharp words can be yet, not really.

But she knows she hurt me.

So today, we make a new decision.

"She's not going back," I say to Phi quietly while she eats her breakfast with her bunny spoon. "Not until we figure it out."

He doesn't argue. He never does when it comes to Kaia. Instead, he says, "I'll take her with me."

"You have back-to-backs today."

He shrugs, already pulling out her little pink backpack. "They'll live. She can sit in my office."

The moment he tells her, she screams. In joy.

"Really?! I get to go to work with you, Dada?!"

"Yes," he says, brushing her hair back, tying the little sparkly ribbons she insists on herself. "But only if you promise to be good and not steal anyone's guns."

"Okay," she says, crossing her heart. "Only look at them."

I roll my eyes. But her grin is bright again, her energy back. And I'm glad it's Phi taking her today—she's always happiest when she's sandwiched between us, but there's something about being in her dad's world that makes her feel invincible.

I kiss her head. I kiss him.

Then I grab my keys and head out.

It's my turn now.

Whatever that teacher wanted to tell my husband, she can say it to me.

...

Her eyes flick behind me when I walk in. Like she's looking for Kaia. When she doesn't see her, she straightens and gives me a smile that's too tight to be real.

"Khun Rain," she says lightly. "I wasn't expecting you today."

I don't smile. "Kaia said her teacher wanted to speak to her dad. I'm her dad."

Kora hesitates, something shifting behind her eyes. "Yes. Yes, of course. I had meant to speak with Khun Phayu, but you're—of course, you're her father too. Please—this way."

I nod, but I don't smile back.

I'm not here to be soothed.

She gestures toward the hallway that leads to the teacher's office. I follow, letting the silence stretch just enough to make her uncomfortable. Not tense. Not awkward. Just... off. Like she's trying to recalibrate everything she meant to say.

Good. Let her.

When we get inside, she closes the door and moves to sit behind her desk.

I  sit across from her and I cross one leg over the other and wait. She's the one who wanted this conversation.

She clears her throat. "Kaia hasn't been in class the past couple of days. We've missed her."

"She hasn't been well. She didn't want to come in"

"She said that to you?" she asks, too quickly.

"She said she didn't want to come to school," I correct. "She's been exhausted, quiet, and not herself. When we asked if anything was wrong, she said you wanted to speak with her father. And that she couldn't tell me. Because I'm 'too soft.'"

Kora swallows that.

I keep going. "She said she had to keep it a secret. That's not how we raise our daughter. She's five. There's no version of this where she should be told to keep anything from me or her dad."

Kora exhales. "I understand. I'm sorry that's how she interpreted it. What I said was that it might be best if I had a word with Khun Phayu—he seemed... firmer, the last time we spoke, and I thought perhaps Kaia could benefit from hearing a united front about her behavior in class."

I blink. Slowly. "Her behavior?"

She says, folding her hands. Kaia is... well, she's a wonderful child. So bright. But lately, she's been having a hard time adjusting."

"To what exactly?" I ask, voice low.

She gives a thin, diplomatic smile. "The new curriculum is more rigorous. Group-based learning. Emotional development. And Kaia... tends to take on more than she should. She helps the other children, tries to keep them in line, answers questions even when it isn't her turn. It's admirable, but also... disruptive."

I just blink at her.

Disruptive?

Kora continues "She tries to manage the class. She tells other students what to do, even corrects me sometimes. It's not malicious, of course—she's a sweet girl—but it does interrupt the flow of the lesson."

"So she's helpful. And confident. And articulate."

Kora winces. "It's not about punishing that, just... guiding it."

"My daughter is tired," I say carefully. "For the first time in five years, she's not bounding out of bed. Not singing in the car. Not telling me and her dad every single detail about her day. You think that's because she's too helpful?"

Kora shifts in her seat.

"Well, that's part of it. But also... some of the children, they're beginning to understand that Kaia has two fathers. And while we encourage inclusivity and acceptance, not all families share the same values. There have been a few... incidents."

My jaw tightens.

"And the part where a group of boys told her our family was wrong? That wasn't worth guiding?"

Kora flushes. "I didn't think it was my place to interfere in family matters. The boys involved have transferred schools."

"And no one thought to tell us? That our daughter was being harassed?"

"I didn't want to alarm you," she says quickly. "And it seemed Kaia was handling it on her own. She's very mature."

"She's five."

She flinches.

"She told us herself that you wanted to speak to her dad. Not to me. That's not something my daughter does lightly. She doesn't keep secrets. Unless she thinks she has to. Unless someone told her to."

Kora swallows.

I stand, slow and measured. "You've had days to call us. To tell us something was wrong. You didn't. And now my daughter thinks she's supposed to protect us by hiding how upset she is. So this is what's going to happen—she's not coming back until we decide what's best for her. And if we hear so much as a whisper of someone calling her family wrong again..."

I leave the sentence there. Unfinished.

I don't need to say the rest.

Her face drains of color.

I get up, smooth my shirt, and leave without another word.

...

As soon as Lilly wraps her arms around my waist, my heart softens for a beat. She's small and warm, and smells like crayons and fruit snacks, and I crouch down to her eye level, brushing a stray hair from her cheek.

"You miss Kaia?" I ask softly.

She nods. "A lot."

"She's not feeling well," I explain. "But she'll be back soon, I promise."

Lilly leans in closer, like she's got a secret. "She's been doing too much," she whispers.

That stops me.

"What do you mean, baby?" I say gently, not pushing, just holding her hand, guiding her toward the car, away from the other children. I'm not a stranger. They all know who I am. I sit her on the edge of the car seat and crouch low again, not caring for the fact I'm wearing white.

She fidgets a little with the hem of her uniform, then says, "Ms. Kora makes Kaia do everything. In class, she helps her arrange the books and hand out papers and clean up toys. Even when it's play time outside, Kaia can't play. Ms. Kora always needs help."

My jaw clenches.

"She says because Kaia has two dads, she's gonna be Kaia's mum. So she's teaching her 'girl stuff'." Lilly makes air quotes around the words, like she knows how dumb it sounds.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

"She makes Kaia sit with her during lunch," Lilly says. "I ask if she wants to play with me but Kaia says she has to stay. Even when we color, Ms. Kora says Kaia has to finish other things first."

And just like that, it all clicks.

Kaia isn't tired because school is hard. She's tired because someone she trusted has been using her. Grooming her with soft voices and manipulative smiles and words like "help" and "responsibility." Someone made my daughter feel like she had to prove her worth. Like something about her was lacking. Like she needed fixing.

All because she has two dads.

I smooth Lilly's hair down gently and press a kiss to her forehead.

"Thank you for telling me, sweetheart," I say, my voice tight but calm. "Kaia's lucky to have you as her best friend."

She beams.

I buckle her back out of the car, let her skip back toward her waiting minder. And then I pull out my phone.

"Phi," I say the moment he picks up. "I found out."

"What happened?"

I pause, watching Lilly from a distance. Still smiling. Still innocent.

"Kora happened," I say, voice cold. "She said she wanted to guide Kaia. What she meant was she wanted to make herself Kaia's mum. She's been working her like an assistant. Making her stay in at lunch. Isolating her. Conditioning her."

Silence crackles over the line.

Then Phi speaks, low and lethal. "We end her."

"No," I murmur, stepping into the car. "We ruin her first."

...

I drive straight from Kaia's school to Phi's office, hands clenched so tight on the steering wheel my knuckles ache. My vision is sharp, white-hot with rage and panic. I need to see her. I need to hold her and tell her she doesn't need a damn mother, doesn't need anyone but us. Whatever that woman did or has been doing to her ends today.

But the second I turn into the parking lot, the feeling in my chest twists.

Security's everywhere. Too many of them. Phi's standing in the middle of it all, looking like someone ripped out his spine. His shirt's wrinkled. His sleeves pushed up. His hair's a mess. But it's his face that stops me cold—completely drained of color.

I slam the car door and run toward him.

"Phi?" My voice is tight. "What's going on? Where's Kaia?"

He swallows once, jaw tight. Then again, like it hurts to speak. "Rain... she's gone."

The world doesn't stop.

I do.

I stop breathing. Stop hearing. Just... stop.

"What?" I breathe. My voice cracks. I shake my head. "No. No, that's not funny, Phi. Where is she?"

He doesn't answer. Just stares at me with that look. That look. The one he's worn in shootouts and standoffs, but never for me. Never for Kaia.

"What do you mean, she's gone?" I say, voice low, shaking. "What the fuck do you mean?"

I shove at his chest. "Tell me where she is!"

"She's gone," he says again, quietly. Brokenly. "Rain, I—"

"I left her with you." My voice rises. I don't care. My hands are trembling. "I left her with you because I thought she'd be safe with you—"

"She was safe," he says quickly, urgently. 

"Isha took her out for ice cream," he says quietly, like he's trying not to break me. "She said she was taking her for a quick treat. They never came back."

My hands fly to my head. My knees buckle but I don't fall.

"You let her—Phi, how could you let her—" My voice cracks open. "You said you'd watch her. You promised."

"She's never done this before," he says, voice hoarse, like it's cutting him open to say it. "I trusted her. She's been in our house since Kaia was a baby. I never—Rain, I swear, I never thought—"

I shove him, fists useless against his chest. "She's gone, Phayi"

"I know!" he roars, finally. "I know, baby! And I will get her back. I'm already—"

I choke. Hands shaking, lips numb. "She was tired. She was sad. I should've—I knew something was wrong—"

"No. No, don't do that." He grabs me, holds me tight. "Don't blame yourself. Don't. This is on me."

I sag into him, the strength leaving my body. "Bring her back," I whisper. "Please. Bring our daughter home."

His arms tighten like steel. Then he turns.

"I want all footage from the moment they left," he snaps. "Every camera from here to the highway. Track Isha's last transaction. Cross every damn license plate in a ten-mile radius."

He's no longer my husband in this moment.

He's the godfather of Bangkok's underworld.

And for once, I pity the people who took our child.

Kaia, my baby, my heart—she's gone.