Chapter 12

The French village bloomed with spring, wildflowers dotting the fields around Diana’s house. Ryan stood at its edge, a familiar stranger in a worn coat, watching from a distance. For months, he’d lingered near her life never intruding, never forcing, just present. He’d found her again after the company stabilized, Selena’s trial a fading echo, and made a ritual of it: waiting near the bakery, picking Lily up from school when Diana allowed. Today, he leaned against a tree, eyes on the schoolyard where Lily swung, her laughter a sound he’d once ignored. He didn’t approach. Diana had made her stance clear: no reconciliation, no return but Lily was his daughter, and he couldn’t let go entirely. He’d started small showing up with a toy or a book, his presence quiet, unthreatening. Diana watched him warily, her refusal firm, but she didn’t stop him from seeing Lily. “She decides,” she’d said once, her voice cold. “Not you.” Lily had been distant at first, her eyes wary, her words