Chapter 6

The charger clicked into place with a sound like a gunshot in the silence of Malia’s room.

She stared at the cord, at the way it snaked from her nightstand to the outlet, at the small green light that meant power was flowing, that connection was possible, that the world she’d shut out for seven days was about to come flooding back in. Her hands shook. They hadn’t stopped shaking since Momo left, since the slap and the tears and the admission that Kylie was in therapy, that Kylie was writing letters, that Kylie was as broken as she was.

The phone screen lit up. And lit up. And lit up.

Missed calls: 47. All from Kylie.

Text messages: 113. Mostly Kylie. A few from Momo, Josh, Morgan, Dara. One from Ivory that just said you stink but i love you.

Malia scrolled through Kylie’s texts with her heart in her throat, each one a small wound, a small hope, a small piece of the girl she’d tried to forget:

Kylie: malia please
im in therapy
its terrible but im going
i need you to know im trying
i wrote you a letter
seventeen letters actually
i know thats creepy
im creepy and angry and fucked up
but i love you
i love you i love you i love you

Malia’s thumb hovered over the screen. She wanted to answer. Wanted to type I love you too or I’m scared or please wait for me—something, anything, to bridge the silence she’d built like a wall between them.

Then the banking app notification appeared.

Deposit: $200,000.00
From: Alexander Cantrall
Note: My daughter is falling apart. Please save her.

Malia stared. The numbers blurred, doubled, refused to make sense. Two hundred thousand dollars. For what? For her silence? For her return? For the privilege of being bought like a commodity, like a solution to a problem she hadn’t caused?

Her hands shook harder. Her vision spotted. She was about to throw the phone, about to scream, about to crawl back under her weighted blanket and never emerge—

Then another notification. A text from a number she hadn’t seen in two years, a number she’d blocked and deleted and tried to bury in the graveyard of her memory.

Finley: A little birdy told me you need a man.
Heard you’ve been crying over some dyke with daddy issues.
I’m in LA next week. Let me remind you what you’re missing.
You were always better when I handled you. Remember?

Malia didn’t remember throwing the phone. Didn’t remember standing up, didn’t remember her legs carrying her across the room, didn’t remember yanking open her bedroom door with such force that the cracked lock finally gave way entirely. She was in motion, pure and furious, a feeling she’d never experienced before—anger so clean it burned away the anxiety, the fear, the paralysis that had kept her in bed for seven days.

She was in the shower before she realized she’d stripped off Kylie’s hoodie. The water was scalding, pounding her shoulders, turning her skin pink and then red. She scrubbed herself with soap that smelled like Ivory’s expensive body wash, washed her hair twice, stood under the spray until it ran cold and her teeth chattered and she felt awake for the first time in a week.

He dug into my life. Alex Cantrall. He found Finley. He told him—he told that monster where to find me.

The thought should have sent her back to bed. Should have curled her into a ball, should have triggered the panic that lived in her chest like a second heartbeat.

Instead, it made her furious.

She got out. Dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck she’d forgotten she owned. Brushed her hair with violent strokes, braided it back from her face, looked in the mirror and saw someone she barely recognized—cheekbones sharp from not eating, eyes red-rimmed but *alive*, mouth set in a line that meant business.

“Malia?” Julia appeared in the bathroom doorway, coffee in hand, still in her work-from-home pajamas at 2 PM. “Baby? You’re up. You’re—” she took in the outfit, the braid, the expression, “—you’re leaving?”

“Cantrall and Co.,” Malia said, her voice rough but steady. “I need to talk to Alex Canntrall.”

Julia’s face went white. “Malia, no. He’s—he’s not a good man when he’s cornered. I’ve seen him—”

“Then he shouldn’t have cornered me.” Malia pushed past her mother, grabbed her keys from the bowl by the door, her dead phone still on her bed, her wallet, her courage. “He bought me, Mom. He sent my ex—Finley—after me. He thinks he can fix his daughter by throwing money at me, by manipulating me, by—” her voice cracked, steadied, “—by treating me like a problem to be solved. I’m not a problem. I’m a person. And I’m going to tell him exactly that.”

“Malia, wait—”

But Malia was already gone, down the stairs, into the afternoon heat, hailing an Uber with a raised hand that didn’t shake, not even a little.

—

The Cantrall & Co. building gleamed in the sunlight, indifferent and enormous. Malia marched through the revolving doors like Momo had, past the security guard who recognized her from a hundred lobby waits, past the receptionist who stammered “Ms. Baker, you can’t—” and into the elevator that required a keycard.

She took the stairs. Fourteen floors. Her legs burned, her lungs screamed, but she didn’t stop, didn’t slow, didn’t let the fear catch up. She burst through the fire door on the executive floor and walked straight to the corner office with the nameplate: A. Sterling, CEO.

The door was open. Alex was inside, phone to his ear, laughing at something someone had said. He looked up as Malia filled his doorway, and his smile faltered, then reassembled itself into something performative and cold.

“Julia’s daughter,” he said, hanging up without goodbye. “I was wondering when you’d surface. Please, sit. We should—”

“How dare you,” Malia said.

She didn’t shout. Not yet. Her voice was low, trembling with the effort of control, but it carried. The assistants outside stopped typing. Someone gasped.

Alex’s smile flickered. “I beg your pardon?”

“The money.” Malia advanced into the room, stopped at his desk, planted both hands on the mahogany surface. “Two hundred thousand dollars. As if you can buy me. As if my silence, my pain, my fear has a price tag.”

“Now, Malia, I think you’ve misunderstood—”

“And Finley.” The name came out like a curse, like a wound reopened. “You dug into my life. You found my ex-boyfriend—the one who told me I was too broken to love, too anxious to touch, too much for anyone to want—and you gave him my number. You told him I needed a man. You—” her voice finally broke, rose, “—you weaponized my trauma against me because your daughter is sad?”

Alex stood up. He was tall, imposing, the kind of man who used his height like a threat. “You need to calm down. You’re hysterical.”

“Hysterical?” Malia laughed, high and wild. “I’m angry. There’s a difference. And you don’t get to tell me which one I am. You don’t get to tell me anything. You don’t get to buy me, manipulate me, violate my privacy because you can’t control your own child!”

“Kylie is—” Alex’s jaw tightened, “—Kylie is falling apart. She won’t eat, won’t sleep, won’t focus. She’s useless to me like this. And you’re the cause—”

“I’m not the cause of anything!” Malia slammed her palm on the desk, the crack echoing through the office. “Your daughter is hurting because of you. Because you treat her like a disappointment, like a project, like something to be fixed instead of loved. I didn’t do that. You did. And instead of facing it, instead of being a father, you decided to throw money at me and sick my abusive ex on me like some kind of—” she was shouting now, couldn’t stop, didn’t want to, “—like some kind of punishment! For what? For loving her? For being scared of her? For needing time to heal?”

“Malia—”

“Take it back!” She was crying, furious tears that burned her cheeks. “Take back the money. Call off Finley. Leave me alone, leave my mother alone, leave Kylie alone long enough to actually see her! She’s not falling apart because of me, Alex. She’s falling apart because of you. Because you can’t love her unless she’s perfect, and she’s not perfect, she’s human, she’s angry and scared and intense and wonderful, and you can’t see it because you’re too busy looking at your own reflection in her failures!”

The office was silent. Malia’s chest heaved, her hands braced on the desk, her whole body vibrating with the aftermath of words she’d never known she had in her.

Alex stared at her. Really stared, something shifting in his expression—surprise, maybe, or the dawning realization that the quiet girl from the lobby, the “compliant” one, the “obedient” one, had teeth.

“You—” he started, and his voice was different now, less certain, “—you’re not what I expected.”

“Nobody ever is,” Malia spat. “Now take back the money. Or I donate it to a domestic violence shelter in your name. With a press release.”

She didn’t know where that threat came from. Didn’t know she was capable of it. But it felt good. It felt powerful, this new version of herself, this angry brave girl who shouted in CEO offices and demanded accountability.

“Done,” Alex said quietly. “The money. I’ll recall it. And Finley—” he looked away, jaw working, “—I’ll handle Finley. He won’t contact you again.”

“He’d better not. Or you’ll be handling a lawsuit.” Malia straightened, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and turned to leave.

That’s when she saw Kylie.

Kylie stood in the doorway, hand still on the frame from where she’d clearly run, mullet disheveled, eyes wide and wet and devastated. She was wearing the same wrinkled black button-down from the dinner, sleeves rolled to her elbows, silver rings catching the fluorescent light.

She’d heard everything. Malia could see it in the way she was shaking, in the way her mouth opened and closed without sound, in the way she looked at Malia like she was seeing her for the first time.

“Malia,” Kylie whispered.

Malia’s anger drained out of her, leaving only exhaustion, only the raw aftermath of courage spent. She looked at Kylie—really looked at her, at the hollow cheeks and the red-rimmed eyes and the handprint on her cheek that Momo had left, still faintly visible—and felt something crack open in her chest. Not fear, this time. Something else. Something that hurt worse.

“I—” Malia started, but her voice failed her. The shouting had taken everything. She had nothing left.

“You came,” Kylie said, and she was crying now, silent tears tracking down her face. “You came here. You shouted at my dad. For me. For—” she laughed, broken and wondering, “—for us?”

“I came here for me,” Malia said, but it came out gentle, almost soft. “Because he hurt me. Because I won’t let anyone hurt me anymore. Not even—” she paused, swallowed, “—not even the father of the girl I love.”

The word hung in the air between them. Love. Malia hadn’t said it before. Hadn’t let herself think it, not since the dinner, not since the fear.

Kylie made a sound—half-sob, half-laugh—and took a step forward. Then stopped, hands raised like she was surrendering, like she was asking permission.

“Can I—” Kylie’s voice cracked. “Can I touch you? Please. I just—I need to know you’re real. That this is real. That you’re not—” she glanced at her father, something bitter and hopeless flashing across her face, “—that you’re not another thing he’s taken from me.”

Malia looked at Alex, still standing behind his desk, pale and silent and small in a way she’d never seen him. Then she looked at Kylie, at the girl who’d crashed into her in a lobby, who’d called her all night, who’d bought her boba and won her stuffed animals and *scared* her with the force of her anger.

She stepped forward.

Kylie’s arms came around her slowly, carefully, like she was holding something fragile that might shatter. Malia buried her face in Kylie’s neck—vanilla and cigarettes, the same scent from the hoodie, from the memories, from the before—and felt Kylie shaking, felt her own tears wetting Kylie’s collar, felt the solid warmth of her, real and present and here.

“I’m sorry,” Kylie whispered into her hair, over and over. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know about the money. I didn’t know about Finley. I would never—I would never—”

“I know,” Malia said, and she did. She believed it. The anger had burned away enough fear to let her see clearly, to let her trust the trembling girl holding her like she was the only solid thing in a spinning world.

“I love you,” Kylie said, the words muffled against Malia’s braid. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t deserve—but I love you. I love you so much I can’t breathe without you. I’ve been writing you letters, terrible letters, and going to therapy, terrible therapy, and waiting, just waiting, for you to—”

“I got your texts,” Malia interrupted, pulling back just enough to see Kylie’s face. “All of them. The letters—I want to read them. If you’ll still let me.”

“Yes. Of course. Forever.” Kylie cupped Malia’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing her tear-stained cheeks, and her expression was so open, so vulnerable, that Malia felt the last of her fear crumble. “Malia, I—I’m going to mess up again. I’m angry. I’m intense. I have shit to work through. But I’m trying. I’m in therapy. I’m learning to walk away before I explode. I’m learning to—” she laughed, wet and desperate, “—to feel things without setting them on fire. And if you’ll let me, if you’ll give me another chance, I want to learn with you. Beside you. For you.”

Malia looked at her. At the girl who’d terrified her and cherished her, who’d shouted at her father and cried in her arms, who was as broken and brave and human as she was.

“Okay,” Malia whispered.

“Okay?”

“Okay.” She pressed her forehead to Kylie’s, felt their breath mingle, felt the steady beat of Kylie’s heart against her own. “But Kylie?”

“Yeah?”

“If you scare me like that again—if you explode, if you make me feel small and unsafe—I walk away. No matter how much I love you. I have to protect myself first. I have to—” her voice wavered, steadied, “—I have to be brave enough to leave.”

Kylie closed her eyes. Nodded. “I know. I understand. I’ll do better. I’ll be better. For you. For me. For—” she glanced at her father, still silent and watchful, and something hard entered her expression, “—for the us I’m trying to build, even if he doesn’t approve.”

“He doesn’t matter,” Malia said, and was surprised to find it true. “Not to us. Not to this.”

“No,” Kylie agreed, and she was smiling now, that crooked, devastating smile, through her tears and her exhaustion and her hope. “He doesn’t.”

They kissed. Soft and slow and careful, a question and an answer, a promise and a prayer. Malia felt Kylie’s hands in her hair, felt her own fingers tracing the silver chain at Kylie’s neck, felt the steady warmth of her, solid and real and hers.

Behind them, Alex cleared his throat. They ignored him.

When they finally broke apart, Kylie kept her arms around Malia’s waist, kept her close, kept her safe. She turned to face her father, and her voice was steady when she spoke:

“Dad. The money’s gone. Finley’s handled. And if you ever contact Malia again, if you ever try to buy her or threaten her or interfere with her life in any way—” she took a breath, “—you lose me. For good. No holidays. No Sunday dinners. No pretending we’re a family. I’m done being your project. I’m done being your disappointment. I’m Malia’s. And she’s mine. And that’s the only family I need.”

Alex looked at them—at his daughter, fierce and fragile, at the quiet girl who’d shouted him into silence, at the way they held each other like armor. Something shifted in his expression. Something that might have been loss, or recognition, or the distant beginning of respect.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “The money’s recalled. Finley’s—” he paused, jaw tight, “—Finley’s handled. And Kylie—” he met her eyes, something almost like apology flickering there, “—do better. Be better. For her. If you love her half as much as you claim, then be the person she deserves.”

“I will,” Kylie said, and for the first time, Malia believed her.

They left together, hands intertwined, passing the staring assistants and the whispered gossip and the weight of Alex Cantrall’s gaze on their backs. In the elevator, Kylie pressed Malia against the mirrored wall and kissed her again, deeper this time, hungrier, like she was making up for seven days of silence.

“I missed you,” Kylie breathed against her lips. “Every second. Every breath. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Malia admitted, and felt the truth of it settle into her bones like warmth. “But Kylie?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time you have daddy issues, can we talk about it before the screaming dinner?”

Kylie laughed, surprised and delighted, the sound echoing through the elevator. “Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.”

“And the letters?”

“Yours. All yours. I’ll read them to you. Every terrible, creepy, Victorian word.”

“I’d like that.”

The elevator doors opened. They stepped out into the lobby, into the afternoon light, into the city that had watched them collide and shatter and begin again.

And Malia Baker, anxious and quiet and brave, walked hand in hand with Kylie Cantrall into whatever came next.

—

I cried writing these 3 chapters 😭😭