Chapter 1

My coworker pushed me out of a burning car.

He died. His wife was nine months pregnant, about to give birth.

His wife pressured me to marry her.

I quit my job, took care of her and the baby, and spent six years as a full-time stay-at-home dad.

Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, dropping him off at preschool. She didn't want to have kids with me. I said fine.

Six years. We never fought once.

Until the day at the police station, when six-year-old Jack pointed at me and said — "I don't know this man. He was trying to kidnap me."

I looked at him, and I just started laughing.

Six years of debt. Paid in full.

Guess who panicked first after I turned around and walked out of that police station?

One of the fluorescent lights in the police station was broken, buzzing and flickering — just like the wire strung tight inside my head.

Jack sat in the chair across from the officer, his little legs dangling in the air, wearing the expression of someone delivering righteous judgment.

"I don't know this man." He pointed at me.

Six years old. Clear pronunciation, articulate delivery. I taught him myself.

From the moment he started babbling his first words, every sound, every syllable — I corrected them one by one.

Including the phrase "I don't know."

The officer glanced at me, then at Jack, his expression somewhere between awkward and uncertain.

"Sir, the child says he doesn't know you…"

I pulled up photos on my phone — my ID and our marriage certificate — and held them out.

"Jack. Six years old. He's my stepson. His mom, Victoria, is my wife."

The officer looked them over, confirmed everything checked out, and visibly relaxed.

"Then this must be a misunderstanding. Kids sometimes—"

"It's not a misunderstanding." I cut him off.

Jack was still swinging his legs, completely unbothered. Almost smug.

I knew that look.

It was the same look Victoria wore when she steamrolled her subordinates in meetings.

I crouched down to his eye level.

"Jack… tell me. Who taught you to say that?"

He scrunched up his mouth. "Mom said you're not my dad. My dad was a hero. You're just the guy who lives in our house."

The guy who lives in our house.

I turned those words over slowly. The muscles in my jaw twitched.

Six years. Two thousand, one hundred and ninety days.

Up at three in the morning to prep ingredients. Breakfast ready by five. Dropping him off at preschool by seven. Cleaning the house by nine. Grocery run at eleven. Picking him up at three-thirty. Teaching him to read in the evenings. Telling him stories until he fell asleep.

The guy who lives in their house. Yeah. That was about right.

The house was in Falcon's name. The car was in Victoria's name. The savings were in Victoria's account.

I really was nothing.

"Okay." I stood up.

The officer was still saying something — probably the usual "kids don't know any better" kind of thing.

I wasn't listening. I pocketed my phone and pushed open the station door.

The March wind hit my face like a slap, cool and sharp.

I stood on the front steps and pulled out my phone. Sent Victoria a text.

"Your son is at the Sunshine Road police station. He told them I was a kidnapper. Come get him."

I stared at it for a second, then added one more line.

"Let's get a divorce tomorrow."

Fifteen seconds after I hit send, my phone rang. I declined the call.

I didn't want to hear her voice today.

Six years. Everything I needed to say, I'd already said. Whatever was left — it didn't need saying anymore.

I stepped down off the stairs.

Behind me, Jack started crying — probably realized no one was coming for him and lost his nerve.

In the past, the moment he cried, my legs would go weak. Today, they didn't.

From here on out, I was done looking after him.