Sebastian's POV
It was almost 11 a.m. when she stumbled into the kitchen.
Still in her pajamas—black shorts, one of my hoodies drowning her frame, hair a dark waterfall down her back. Barefoot. Sleepy-eyed. Adorable.
Suspiciously adorable.
"Morning, Daddy," she yawned, voice too sweet, syrup-thick. She slid into the kitchen island stool, chin resting on her palm. "Did you eat?"
I narrowed my eyes.
"No." I flipped a pancake and studied her out of the corner of my eye. "Did you?"
She grinned. "No. I was waiting for you."
Cute. Too cute.
She looked like a Disney princess trying to play poker.
I set the plate in front of her—two pancakes, strawberries, extra maple syrup—and leaned on the counter, crossing my arms.
"You sleep well last night?"
She blinked. "Hmm?"
My gaze didn't budge.
"I asked," I repeated slowly, "if you slept well."
A pause.
Then she smiled again, softer this time. "Of course. Best sleep ever with you back in the house."
Nice answer. Well-rehearsed. But I wasn't buying it.
Her hair was slightly damp at the ends, like she'd just showered. And not the usual morning kind. The kind that washes away scent. Evidence.
I stepped closer.
She tilted her head. "What?"
I brushed her hair back gently. My thumb paused.
There.
A faint red mark on the side of her neck, just beneath her jaw.
Fingertip-sized.
She flinched.
"What's that?" I asked, my voice low.
"What's what?"
I didn't answer. I just looked. She fidgeted, pulling her hair forward like a curtain.
"Bug bite," she mumbled.
Liar.
Then the smell hit me. Faint, but there—under the vanilla shampoo, under the girly lotion.
Smoke. Cigarette smoke.
I froze.
My heart thudded once, hard.
Ava never smoked. She hated the idea of it. Always whined when I lit one in the past. "Daaaad, that's so gross," she used to complain, snatching it out of my mouth like a little brat.
I leaned in. She stiffened.
"What were you doing last night?"
Her lashes fluttered. "Sleeping."
I said nothing.
She picked up a strawberry, popped it in her mouth, chewing like she wasn't being dissected by my stare. "You're acting weird."
"I'm not the one who smells like Marlboro and midnight."
Her fork froze halfway to her lips.
I knew her tells. Her pupils always dilated a little when she lied. Her voice got higher, sentences shorter. And she played with her hair—just like she was doing now, wrapping it around her fingers like rope.
I could feel something tightening in my chest. Something primal. Ugly.
"You went out."
"No, I didn't."
I stepped around the island, close enough to feel her flinch again. "You snuck out."
"I didn't."
I said her name—once, sharp. She didn't flinch this time.
She stared at me, wide-eyed. "You don't believe me?"
"No."
Silence.
She set the fork down slowly.
Then smiled.
But it wasn't her sunshine smile. It was darker. Braver.
"I'm sixteen, not six."
"I know exactly how old you are," I growled.
"Then stop treating me like I'm made of glass."
My jaw clenched.
She slid off the stool and padded past me, soft as silk, voice light as air. "Relax, Daddy. Maybe you're just imagining things."
She kissed my cheek and walked off like she hadn't just planted a nuclear bomb in the middle of the kitchen.
And all I could do was stand there.
Staring after her.
Because for the first time in years…I had no idea who the hell my daughter really was.