Forgiveness, Trust & Forever

Emily

The officer called me Ms Dean.
For once, somebody got my name right.
Emily Dean.
Not Rose. Not some stage name people attached to me because they thought dancers needed prettier labels. Not Mrs anything, despite the rumours the article had dragged up and dressed in half-truths.
Dean.
The name I had signed on studio contracts, court documents, hospital forms, and the first version of Eleanora's birth certificate.
Eleanora Dean.
Just mine.
That was what I had made her at first.
Not because she was only mine. Not really. Even then, even when I was furious and terrified and drowning in a body I no longer recognised, I knew whose eyes she had. I knew whose blood ran through her. I knew exactly who I was leaving off that paper.
Hero.
I had registered her without him.
No father listed.
Just me.
Just Dean.
Then court happened.
Solicitors. Statements. Cafcass. Social workers. Questions that sounded gentle until they weren't. Hero sitting across rooms from me with his jaw locked and his grief dressed up as anger. Me answering everything like I was composed because falling apart would only prove them right.
And by the end of it, Eleanora Dean became Eleanora Brandon Boo Dean Fiennes Tiffin.
Hero's daughter in law.
Hero's daughter in name.
Hero on the birth certificate as her father, exactly where he should have been from the beginning and exactly where I had been too hurt to put him.
The officer looked up from his notebook.
"Ms Dean?"
I blinked, pulling myself back into the studio.
"Yes. Sorry."
Across the room, another officer moved through the doorway into the garage, speaking low into his radio. Blue lights flashed against the mirrors, turning the polished floor into something strange and cold.
My studio no longer looked like mine.
Clara-Bellas no longer looked like the place I had built out of grief, discipline, rage, and every part of myself I couldn't give to motherhood.
It looked like a crime scene.
Maybe it was.
The thought made my stomach turn.
The officer glanced down at his notes. "Can you tell me again when Mr Hayden Marks first arrived at the property today?"
I wrapped my arms around myself.
I had changed into leggings and one of my own jumpers before coming downstairs. Hero's mother's grey one was upstairs on the chair beside the travel cot, damp with rain and Eleanora's tears and whatever had happened to me while I was wearing it.
I should have felt better in my own clothes.
I didn't.
"I don't know exactly," I said. "After we arrived here. Before we found the phone in the nursery. Maybe half an hour before the lockdown announcement."
"And he entered through the garage?"
"Yes. He had the old code."
"But you changed the code two months ago?"
"Yes."
The officer's pen moved over the page. "Why?"
My eyes shifted towards the garage.
For a second, I saw Hayden as he had been before tonight. Standing by my car with coffees because we'd argued. Sitting on the studio stairs because I hadn't answered his calls. Letting himself into the building with flowers, apologies, and that soft, injured expression that always made me feel cruel for wanting space.
At the time, I had called it intense.
I had called it love from someone who didn't know how to leave things alone.
I had called myself difficult.
Maybe that had been easier than admitting I was scared.
"He kept turning up," I said. "After arguments. If I didn't answer, he'd let himself in and wait."
The officer looked up. "Did that frighten you?"
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
Hero had asked me once why I let Hayden stay.
I had told him because Hayden was none of his business.
The truth was uglier.
Hayden hadn't frightened me in the obvious way at first. He didn't rage from the beginning. He didn't threaten. He didn't shove or grab or leave bruises.
He simply appeared.
Again and again.
Inside spaces I had not invited him into.
And because I was already so used to feeling like every part of me was wrong, I let him convince me that discomfort was just another word for being loved too loudly.
"I don't know," I admitted.
The officer's expression softened, which somehow made it worse.
"Did Mr Marks ever threaten you before today?"
"No."
"Your daughter?"
My daughter.
The words landed differently now.
Not easy.
Not natural.
But no longer impossible.
I looked towards the ceiling.
Upstairs, Hero was with her.
Eleanora was sleeping.
Safe.
For now.
"No," I said. Then I stopped. "Not directly."
The officer waited.
"He said things," I continued. "About me not wanting her. About Hero using her to pull me back in. About how I shouldn't be near them if I couldn't commit." My throat tightened. "He knew where to push."
"Did he know about the nursery?"
My stomach dropped.
The nursery.
The spare room I had kept locked.
The soft green walls.
The cot.
The clouds and stars mobile.
Hero's old jacket on the chair.
The baby clothes I bought while pregnant and then buried like evidence of a girl I could not bear to remember.
"No," I said.
Then, quieter, "Maybe."
The officer's pen paused.
"I never showed him," I said quickly. "Not on purpose. But he had access to the flat. He could have opened the door. He could have seen it."
"And you believe he knew the room existed?"
"I don't know what I believe anymore."
The officer nodded once.
That was the first answer all day that felt completely true.
"What about the baby items found in the box?" he asked.
My chest tightened.
"What baby items?"
"We're still cataloguing everything, but there was a blanket. Some clothing. Possibly taken from the room upstairs."
My hand flew to my mouth.
No.
No, no, no.
Someone had touched them.
Those tiny things I had folded and hidden and hated and loved in little flashes I never admitted to anyone. Someone had taken them from the nursery and put them in a box on my car like a joke.
Like a punishment.
Like proof.
The room blurred.
"Ms Dean?"
I turned away before the officer could see my face properly.
Too late.
A tear slipped down my cheek.
I wiped it quickly.
"They're mine," I whispered.
"I understand."
"No, you don't." My voice cracked. "Those were not just baby clothes."
They were almosts.
Almost hope.
Almost ready.
Almost mother.
The officer said nothing.
Good.
There was nothing useful to say.
"Can I see them?"
"I'm afraid not while they're being processed."
"Processed," I repeated.
Evidence.
That was what my life had become.
The baby blanket I couldn't face.
Evidence.
The nursery I denied.
Evidence.
The old wound Ava had found.
Evidence.
The daughter I had registered without her father because I was young and hurt and wanted one part of her that didn't immediately belong to him.
Evidence.
I swallowed down the scream clawing up my throat.
"Is Hero pressing charges?" I asked.
The officer blinked slightly at the sudden shift. "Mr Tiffin will be asked to provide a statement regarding the assault. The trespass, suspected criminal damage, and threat to property will proceed based on available evidence. Your statement is important too."
"I want Hayden charged."
The officer's gaze sharpened.
"Not noted," I said before he could answer. "Charged. He came into my building. He frightened my daughter. He attacked Hero. He tried to get into the nursery while I was holding her."
The words came faster now, stronger.
"He does not get to explain this as concern. He does not get to say he was helping me. He does not get to make this romantic or protective or whatever pathetic thing he is telling himself. I told him to leave. He came back."
The officer nodded. "That will form part of your statement."
"Good."
My voice shook.
But I did not take the words back.
A sound came from the stairs.
I looked up.
Hero stood at the bottom, Eleanora's monitor in one hand and a cold cloth pressed to his lip with the other.
He had changed into one of the old T-shirts from the nursery box.
Faded black.
Stretched at the collar.
His.
From before.
Seeing him wearing it in Clara-Bellas, beneath police lights and studio mirrors, hit me somewhere soft enough to hurt.
Like time had folded over itself.
His eyes found mine immediately.
"You okay?"
The officer looked between us.
I wanted to say yes.
Instead, I looked at the cloth against Hero's mouth.
"You're bleeding again."
"That wasn't an answer."
"You look worse."
"Still not an answer."
The officer cleared his throat, probably regretting every career choice that had led him into the middle of our disaster.
"I'll give you both a moment. We may need additional information shortly."
He stepped away.
Hero came closer.
Not too close.
Close enough that I could see the split in his lip had opened again. The bruise along his jaw was darker now, ugly beneath his skin. His shoulder looked stiff. He stood like his ribs hurt.
Hayden had done that.
Because of me.
No.
Not because of me.
Because Hayden chose to.
I was trying to learn the difference.
"Where's Eleanora?" I asked.
"Asleep. I brought the monitor."
The small screen showed the travel cot in my bedroom. Eleanora was curled on her side, rabbit tucked beneath her chin, one little hand resting near her face.
The sight loosened something in me.
"She's okay?"
"She's okay."
I nodded.
Hero studied me.
"What happened?"
"They took things from the nursery."
His face changed instantly.
"What things?"
"Baby things. A blanket. Clothes. I don't know."
His jaw tightened.
"Ava?"
"Hayden. Ava. Both. I don't know." My voice cracked on the last word. "Someone went through that room."
"I know."
"You don't understand."
"I do."
"No." I shook my head. "You found your old things in there and maybe that hurt, but that room was..." I stopped, unable to find words big enough. "That room was the version of me I killed because I couldn't live with her."
Hero went very still.
My throat burned.
"She wanted things," I whispered. "That version. She bought blankets and painted walls and folded tiny vests like maybe if she practised enough, motherhood would happen. Then it didn't. So I shut the door and told everyone she never existed."
Hero's face softened so much I nearly looked away.
I didn't.
I was tired of hiding.
"And now all of it is evidence in my garage."
He stepped closer.
This time, I let him.
"I'm sorry."
I laughed quietly, but it came out wet. "You apologise a lot now."
"I missed a few years."
That almost broke me.
I pressed my fingers to my mouth, trying to hold myself together.
Hero reached slowly, giving me time to stop him.
I didn't.
His hand touched my arm.
Warm.
Careful.
Nothing like last night.
Somehow more intimate.
"You didn't kill her," he said.
I shook my head.
"You didn't," he repeated. "She's upstairs."
My eyes snapped to his.
"In the nursery?"
He nodded.
"In the way you held Nora. In the way you argued with the officer about cameras. In the way you asked for her coat. In the way you just told him Hayden doesn't get to call this love."
Nora.
He said it like I had given him something precious.
Maybe I had.
"I don't know how to be her," I said.
"Then don't be the old version." His thumb moved gently over my sleeve. "Be this one."
"This one is a disaster."
"So is mine."
Despite everything, I laughed.
Barely.
But it was there.
Hero smiled, then winced.
"Stop smiling," I said.
"That's new."
"Your face is broken."
"Temporarily."
I reached for the cloth before I could stop myself.
"Let me see."
His eyes warmed.
Too much.
I glared.
"Medically."
"Of course."
He lowered the cloth.
His lip was split worse than I thought. Blood had gathered at the corner of his mouth, and the skin around it was swollen.
Something dark moved through me.
Hayden's fist.
Hero's blood.
The police lights.
My daughter crying behind a locked nursery door.
I touched the edge of Hero's jaw with two fingers, careful to avoid the bruise.
He went still.
So did I.
The studio around us disappeared.
Mirrors.
Police.
Petrol.
Lockdown.
All of it blurred.
There was only his skin beneath my fingers and the way his eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second before dragging back up.
"Don't," I whispered.
His voice was rough. "I didn't."
"You thought it."
"I'm in pain, Emily. Have some mercy."
"That doesn't stop you thinking."
"No," he admitted. "Apparently not."
My fingers were still on his jaw.
I should have moved them.
I didn't.
One of the officers coughed near the garage door.
I dropped my hand instantly.
Hero looked like he hated the interruption as much as I did.
Which was inconvenient.
Because I was supposed to be better than this.
We had rules.
No more last night.
No romance.
No sex.
No touching wounds and pretending it was first aid when really I wanted to prove he was still here.
The baby monitor made a tiny crackling sound.
I looked down fast.
Eleanora shifted on screen but stayed asleep.
Good.
Safe.
Hero followed my gaze.
"I should get back upstairs."
"I'll go."
His eyes lifted.
I heard myself too late.
"What?"
"I'll sit with her."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
His face changed.
I hated that I liked it.
"Emily-"
"Don't make it a thing."
His mouth twitched.
"I wasn't."
"You were about to."
"Maybe."
"Don't."
"Okay."
He handed me the monitor.
His fingers brushed mine.
I hated that my body noticed after everything.
I went to move past him, but he touched my wrist lightly.
"Wait."
I stopped.
"What?"
"Her name."
I knew immediately what he meant.
Eleanora.
Not Nora.
Not the nickname I had accidentally given her while she cried in my arms.
Her full name.
The one that had been changed after court.
I looked down at the monitor.
"She was Eleanora Dean first," I said quietly.
"I know."
"Do you hate me for that?"
He didn't answer quickly.
Good.
I didn't want a lie.
"I hated it then."
I swallowed.
"And now?"
His eyes moved to the tiny black-and-white image of our daughter sleeping.
"Now I understand you were trying to keep one piece of her from being taken over by everything I represented."
My chest tightened painfully.
"That doesn't make it right."
"No."
"I should have put you down."
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Truth.
Still sharp.
Still necessary.
"When the court changed it," I whispered, "I thought it would feel like losing her twice."
Hero's hand loosened on my wrist, but he didn't let go.
"And did it?"
I looked at him.
"It felt like admitting she was never only mine."
His face broke.
"Emily."
"She's Eleanora Brandon Boo Dean Fiennes Tiffin now," I said, because saying it aloud felt important. "That is a ridiculous amount of name for someone who can't even say dada properly."
Hero laughed softly, then winced.
My mouth twitched despite myself.
"You wanted Brandon," I said.
"So did you."
My throat closed.
Yes.
I had.
Brandon.
Our best friend.
The boy who had loved us both before everything got ugly. The boy who had stood between Hero and me more times than he should have had to. The boy I married when he was dying because grief and love and loyalty had tangled themselves into something no one outside us would ever understand.
The boy who had held my hand when Hero wasn't there.
The boy who had known about Eleanora before Hero did.
The boy who had died before any of us could work out how to forgive each other properly.
"Brandon deserved to be part of her," Hero said quietly.
Tears burned my eyes.
"He loved her," I whispered.
Hero nodded.
"I know."
"He only knew her as Boo."
The word nearly broke me.
Boo.
My tiny secret name for her before she was born.
Before Eleanora became a court case, a birth certificate, a fight, a headline.
Before I had to admit she was real enough to want things from me.
When she was still tucked beneath my ribs and no one could take her, judge her, claim her, or ask me why I wasn't glowing with the right kind of love.
I used to press my hand to my stomach in the dark and whisper, Morning, Boo, or please stop kicking my bladder, Boo, or, on the worst nights, I'm sorry, Boo. I don't know how to do this.
I hadn't told many people that.
Brandon knew.
Mimi knew.
Hero found out later.
After court.
After the name changed.
After he had already learned how much of Eleanora's earliest life had existed without him.
"Boo was yours," Hero said.
"No," I whispered, looking at the monitor. "Boo was hers before any of us knew how to be hers."
Hero's thumb brushed my wrist once.
"She'll hate us when she has to learn to write it."
A laugh broke out of me.
Wet.
Unexpected.
Real.
"She'll need a bigger school book."
"And a patient teacher."
"She'll have my handwriting."
"God help her."
I slapped his chest lightly before I remembered he had just been beaten up.
He winced.
My eyes widened. "Sorry."
"That's okay. I deserved it for the handwriting comment."
"You deserve a lot for a lot of things."
"Yes."
The smile faded from both of us.
For a second, we stood in the middle of Clara-Bellas with my daughter's legal name hanging between us like a fragile bridge.
Eleanora.
The name I gave her.
Brandon.
The friend we lost.
Boo.
The baby she was before the world got hold of her.
Dean.
Me.
Fiennes Tiffin.
Hero.
Mine.
His.
Ours.
Then the monitor crackled again.
Eleanora's little face scrunched on the screen.
I pulled my wrist gently free.
"I'll go."
Hero nodded.
"With Nora," he said softly.
My throat tightened.
"Yes," I said, before fear could take the word. "With Nora."
I climbed the stairs before I could take it back.
Each step felt different now.
Not easier.
Not lighter.
Just different.
The flat was dim when I reached it, the curtains closed against the press and the world outside. The television was still on mute, showing empty London streets and red banners about lockdown. It looked unreal. Like the city had been paused while my life decided to implode.
I went into the bedroom.
Eleanora slept exactly as she had on the monitor, one hand near her face, lashes dark against her cheeks.
I stood by the travel cot.
For once, I didn't feel like an intruder.
Not exactly.
I sat carefully on the floor beside her.
The carpet was soft beneath my legs. My back rested against the side of the bed. The room smelled faintly of Hero's aftershave from when he had been in here, baby milk, and the candle I hadn't lit since yesterday, back when the biggest problem in my life had been pretending I wasn't staring at him across a club.
Yesterday felt like another lifetime.
Eleanora sighed.
I looked at her.
"Nora," I whispered.
The name felt dangerous.
Sweet.
Mine.
She didn't wake.
Good.
I reached one finger through the side of the travel cot, not touching her, just close.
After a few seconds, her hand shifted in sleep and brushed mine.
A tiny accidental touch.
Still enough to make my eyes burn.
Downstairs, Hero began giving his statement.
His voice carried faintly through the floorboards.
Calm.
Low.
Alive.
I closed my eyes.
For one second, I let myself sit inside the impossible truth of the day.
Hero was here.
Eleanora was here.
I was here.
The nursery existed.
Hayden was gone.
Jo had betrayed him.
Ava was still out there.
The country was locked down.
And somehow, impossibly, I had not run.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I opened my eyes.
For a second, I thought it would be Hayden.
But the number was unknown.
My stomach dropped before I even opened it.
You always did like being saved by him.
My fingers went cold.
A second message appeared.
Ask Hero about the day Ava lost the baby.
The room tilted.
I read it again.
And again.
The words made no sense.
No.
Worse.
They made too much sense in a way I did not understand yet.
Ava lost the baby.
A baby.
Ava.
Hero.
My hand flew to my mouth.
Downstairs, Hero was still talking to police.
Upstairs, Eleanora Brandon Boo Dean Fiennes Tiffin slept beside me.
My daughter.
His daughter.
The daughter he had fought for like losing her would kill him.
I stared at the message until the screen blurred.
There were old wounds.
There were wounds we had survived.
And then there were wounds someone had buried so deep they had become landmines.
My chest tightened.
"No," I whispered into the quiet bedroom.
But the phone buzzed again.
One more message.
He never told you everything, Emily Dean.