#####chapter5: Beneath Every Smile, A Secret

Anita sat on the bench across the koi pond, pretending to scroll through her phone while watching the impossible unfold.

Zan wasn’t just talking to Clara—he was listening. really Listening.

He knelt beside her as she showed him her crayon drawings, nodding at every oddly-shaped butterfly and smiling at every overexplained scribble.

It should’ve made Anita furious.

It didn’t.

It made her afraid.

Not of him.

But of the part of herself that still remembered what it felt like to love him.

Clara laughed again, too loud, too wild, drawing glances from a few nearby joggers. She tugged at Zan’s sleeve. “Do you like mangoes?”

“I do,” Zan said.

“Do you like dogs?”

“I tolerate them.”

Clara grinned. “Mummy doesn’t like dogs. She says they’re messy.”

Zan chuckled. “Sounds like something she’d say.”

“Mummy says I ask too many questions.”

“She’s wrong. Good girls ask questions.”

Clara squinted. “Are you a good boy?”

Zan blinked, caught off guard by the innocent jab. “Not always.”

Clara nodded, satisfied. “Me neither.”

Anita looked away for a moment, unsure whether to cry or laugh.

Later that evening, as they walked back to the car, Clara trailed behind, plucking flowers from the garden path.

Zan slowed beside Anita, his voice low.

“Thank you.”

She didn’t look at him. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know. But I’m still grateful.”

Anita sighed. “She likes you. That doesn’t mean you’ve earned her.”

“I plan to.”

Her gaze hardened. “You can’t plan a child’s love like a business takeover.”

Zan didn’t reply.

He didn’t have to.

The silence between them said more than any argument could.

The next morning, Anita stared at her reflection as she fastened her earrings, the gold hoops catching the morning light like miniature shields.

She looked like a woman in control.

She didn’t feel like one.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Zan:

“Clara asked if I could take her to the aquarium this Saturday. Only if you approve.”

Anita read it three times before responding:

“One hour. I’ll be nearby.”

He replied instantly.

“Understood.”

She tucked the phone into her purse and left the mirror. But as she walked away, she didn’t realise her daughter had been watching from the doorway.

“Mummy?”

Anita turned. “Yes, baby?”

“Are you mad at my daddy?”

The word—daddy—hit harder than she expected.

“I’m not mad,” Anita lied. “I’m just... careful.”

Clara walked over and wrapped her arms around Anita’s legs.

“Don’t be too careful, Mummy. Or you’ll miss the good parts.”

Anita froze.

She knelt and kissed Clara’s forehead, forcing a smile. “I’ll try.”

Meanwhile, across the city, Zan stood at the window of his suite, watching clouds form over the skyline.

His phone rang.

Private number.

He answered with caution.

The voice was familiar. Feminine. Deliberate.

“I trust the visit went well,” said Anita’s mother.

Zan stiffened. “You shouldn’t be calling me.”

“We had an agreement.”

“I made no promises. I’m not doing this your way.”

“Then you’ll lose both of them.”

Zan’s jaw tightened. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Fire builds kingdoms. And destroys weak ones.”

He hung up.

She called back immediately.

He ignored it.

Then he deleted her number.

If this was going to work, it had to be on Anita’s terms. Not backroom deals. Not the old ways.

Not the mistakes that made him a ghost in his own daughter’s life.

At the office, Anita reviewed contracts while her assistant dropped off the weekly press summary.

“You’re trending again,” the assistant said casually.

“Why?”

“People are speculating about your daughter’s father after Saturday’s sighting at the butterfly garden. Someone took a photo.”

Anita took the folder and opened it.

And there it was. A blurry but unmistakable shot—Zan crouched beside Clara. Her hand in his.

The caption read:

“Clara Callister’s Mystery Father: Billionaire Zan Benson?”

Anita’s stomach turned.

They hadn’t even gone public. And already, the world wanted a headline.

She closed the folder and pressed her palms against the desk.

“Schedule a call with legal,” she said. “We may need to file for press restraint.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, and one more thing—have someone look into who took that photo. Discreetly.”

That evening, while putting Clara to bed, Anita noticed something new.

Clara was sketching again. Only this time, she’d drawn two stick figures holding hands.

“Mummy,” Clara said. “Can I give this to Daddy next time?”

Anita’s throat tightened.

She smiled carefully. “Yes, baby. I think he’d like that.”

Clara held it up. “Look. I drew you in, too.”

Anita took the paper and stared at the three figures.

For the first time, she wasn’t faceless.

Clara had drawn her right beside Zan.

And even in crayon, they looked... connected.

Like a family.

But miles away, a storm was brewing behind closed doors.

Anita’s mother met with an unfamiliar man in a shadowed lounge of the Coral Bay Hotel.

He wore no expression, only a silver ring that caught the candlelight.

“She’s not budging,” she said, sipping her wine.

“She doesn’t have to,” the man replied. “All we need is Clara’s name on the inheritance paperwork. Once the child is publicly acknowledged as a Benson, the foundation triggers legally.”

“And if Anita fights it?”

The man smiled coldly. “Then she’ll lose. Public sympathy always leans toward a father reclaiming his child.”

“And Zan?”

“He’s no longer the threat. He’s the key.”

She blinked. “He won’t play dirty.”

The man leaned closer. “Then we’ll play for him.”