A nervous shiver travels down his back, branding every nerve with ice. Her presence is undeniable. Her laugh: captivating, warm, full of life. He doesn't want to turn around. He refuses to see the copper locks that resembles a halo in the afternoon sun or the ethereal pale porcelain skin that screams "Coyne".
But he is a masochist.
She is exquisite. Even at five. He thinks maybe that's how Daphne looked like as a child. The tips of her ears had gone scarlet from the frigid temperatures, but she soon warms up with a quick sip of her hot cocoa. The child giggles as tongue darts her to catch the stray drops of the chocolaty goodness.
He knows he shouldn't have come here. Nearly a decade away from the city with his beautiful wife hadn't been enough to forget her lips; full, pink, sweet. But after his divorce, he couldn't help himself.
From the moment he said "I do", he had been dealing with an ugly black monster that clawed away at his conscience, put doubts in his mind, and coated his heart in tar. It had been climbing its way out for a long time, and now finally, it has broken free. His ex-wife never stood a chance.
Skipping towards him in blissful innocence, he can see her face clearly. She is practically Daphne's mini-clone. Oxygen lodges in his throat. She can't be too far now. He foolishly thinks this is a sign; fate had brought them together again. They really were meant to be. His heart leaps out of his chest in nervous excitement.
"Cora," her voice is the same siren's call from his memories. The memories flood through his head and a sickening spinning feeling develops. Claws are grabbing at his heart, clamping down and draining his essence.
"I don't love you like I love him."
He looks closer at the girl, at Cora. There's something wrong. Her eyes are different. They were sharp, narrow, almost feline-like. And definitely not the bewitching emerald green with golden flecks he remembered.
And then he sees them and the pieces of his heart falls like autumn leaves crumbles to bitter winter's control. She's a magnificent sight all on her own. But he knows Cora's eyes now. Dark and thrilling, he knows them well.
The little angel Cora is a Coyne, but she's also a Bradwell.
And so is Daphne.
He desperately wishes he was stronger. He doesn't understand how can anything that's not physical pain be so agonizing. The pain, searing and harrowing, finds his heart and mind - piercing away with thousands of hot needles. The tar monster slides up to his ear and whispers that she should be his. She should be Mrs. Jack Cooper.
But Daphne Coyne-Bradwell calls to Cora - not Cooper - Bradwell and lovingly caresses her husband's cheek. They look like the perfect family, straight off the pages of a J. Crew catalogue.
She walks past without a glance. She looks happy.
But he is a masochist.
She is exquisite. Even at five. He thinks maybe that's how Daphne looked like as a child. The tips of her ears had gone scarlet from the frigid temperatures, but she soon warms up with a quick sip of her hot cocoa. The child giggles as tongue darts her to catch the stray drops of the chocolaty goodness.
He knows he shouldn't have come here. Nearly a decade away from the city with his beautiful wife hadn't been enough to forget her lips; full, pink, sweet. But after his divorce, he couldn't help himself.
From the moment he said "I do", he had been dealing with an ugly black monster that clawed away at his conscience, put doubts in his mind, and coated his heart in tar. It had been climbing its way out for a long time, and now finally, it has broken free. His ex-wife never stood a chance.
Skipping towards him in blissful innocence, he can see her face clearly. She is practically Daphne's mini-clone. Oxygen lodges in his throat. She can't be too far now. He foolishly thinks this is a sign; fate had brought them together again. They really were meant to be. His heart leaps out of his chest in nervous excitement.
"Cora," her voice is the same siren's call from his memories. The memories flood through his head and a sickening spinning feeling develops. Claws are grabbing at his heart, clamping down and draining his essence.
"I don't love you like I love him."
He looks closer at the girl, at Cora. There's something wrong. Her eyes are different. They were sharp, narrow, almost feline-like. And definitely not the bewitching emerald green with golden flecks he remembered.
And then he sees them and the pieces of his heart falls like autumn leaves crumbles to bitter winter's control. She's a magnificent sight all on her own. But he knows Cora's eyes now. Dark and thrilling, he knows them well.
The little angel Cora is a Coyne, but she's also a Bradwell.
And so is Daphne.
He desperately wishes he was stronger. He doesn't understand how can anything that's not physical pain be so agonizing. The pain, searing and harrowing, finds his heart and mind - piercing away with thousands of hot needles. The tar monster slides up to his ear and whispers that she should be his. She should be Mrs. Jack Cooper.
But Daphne Coyne-Bradwell calls to Cora - not Cooper - Bradwell and lovingly caresses her husband's cheek. They look like the perfect family, straight off the pages of a J. Crew catalogue.
She walks past without a glance. She looks happy.
