Chapter 1

Katniss

The Thursday morning sun paints everything golden—the slide, the monkey bars, even the wood chips cushioning the playground. I push Aria's swing in a steady rhythm, watching her little hands grip the chains like she's holding onto sunshine itself. Her twists bounce with each arc, beads clicking a melody I've memorized since the day I first styled her hair.

"Higher, Mommy! Wanna fly like butterflies!"

"You're already flying, baby girl." I give her another push, gentler than she wants but safer than she knows. At three years old, my daughter has no concept of limitations, no understanding that the world has sharp edges waiting to cut little girls who fly too high.

The private playground has cost me a small fortune in membership fees, but mornings like this make every penny worth it. No other children mean no other parents. No other parents mean no recognition, no whispered conversations behind manicured hands about whether that's really Katniss from TRINITY pushing her daughter on the swings.

"Mommy, look! No hands!" Aria starts to lift her chubby fingers from the chains.

"Hands on, baby. Remember our rule?"

"Hold on tight," she singsongs, gripping again. "Like when Mommy performs!"

My chest squeezes. She's been to exactly two rehearsals in her life, both times tucked away in Vanessa's arms backstage, but she remembers everything. Those amber eyes—my eyes, my grandmother's eyes—catch every detail and hold on tight, just like her little hands on those chains.

That's when I hear it.

Not the obvious click of an iPhone camera. This is different—mechanical, hungry, rapid-fire. The sound that has haunted my dreams since the day I first signed with the label.

"Baby, let's play a game." I keep pushing the swing, my movements steady even as ice floods my veins. "Remember the quiet game Mommy taught you?"

"Where I'm super still?" She's already slowing her legs, responding to something in my voice that I've tried to hide. "Like when we practice?"

God forgive me for teaching my three-year-old to hide from cameras, but I catch her swing and help her down. "That's right, baby. Let's be quiet like little mice."

She presses against my leg immediately, her small body going unnaturally still for a child her age. I've drilled this into her since she could walk—if Mommy says quiet game, we stop moving, stop talking, stop being interesting. The guilt of it will eat me alive later. Right now, I need to locate the source of that shutter sound.

There—behind the spiral slide. A flash of movement, someone adjusting position. Then another rustle near the sandbox, too deliberate to be wind. My heart hammers against my ribs as I catalogue our distance from the parking lot. Fifty yards of open ground. My car keys are in my pocket, but Aria can't run that fast, and carrying her will slow me down.

"Mommy has to tie her shoe," I say loudly, dropping to one knee while pulling Aria between my body and the slide. "Can you count to ten for me?"

"One... two... fwee..." Her voice wavers, picking up on my fear despite my smile.

I palm my phone, thumb flying across the screen without looking. Cindy first—she'll know what to do. Then Vanessa. The shutter sounds are getting bolder now, moving closer. How many are there? Two? Three? My vision tunnels as I try to calculate angles, determine which direction will give them the worst shot.

"Seven... eight..." Aria's counting grows quieter, her hand finding mine.

That's when they make their move.

"Katniss! Katniss James!"

The first photographer emerged from behind the climbing structure—white guy, probably mid-thirties, camera lens longer than my forearm. His eyes lit up with the specific greed I'd seen on a hundred red carpets, but this was different. This was my baby.

"Oh my God, she has a kid!" A second voice, female, from near the monkey bars. "Are you getting this?"

"The whole thing. Holy shit, this is gonna be worth—"

"Aria, baby, up." I scooped her into my arms in one motion, her legs wrapping around my waist automatically. She buried her face in my neck, and I felt her trembling against me. "It's okay. Mommy's got you."

But I didn't have her, not really. Not when three more photographers appeared from behind cars in the parking lot, cameras already trained on us. Not when I could hear others crashing through the bushes that were supposed to make this playground "secluded" and "private" and "safe."

"Katniss! How old is your daughter?"

"Who's the father?"

"How long have you been hiding her?"

They moved like a pack, coordinating to cut off my path to the car. Every instinct screamed to run, but I forced myself to walk normally, chin up, shoulders back. Don't let them smell blood in the water. Don't let them see you break.

"Please step back." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "You're frightening my daughter."

That only made them surge closer. The questions came faster, overlapping into a wall of noise that made Aria whimper. Her fingers dug into my shirt, and I could feel her hot tears against my neck.

"Is this why you took a break two years ago?"

"What's her name?"

"Do the other members of TRINITY know?"

My phone was buzzing nonstop in my pocket. Without looking, I knew what was happening. Someone had already posted the first shots. Twitter was probably exploding. Instagram stories were being screenshot and shared. Three years of carefully guarded privacy evaporating in real-time.

"Come on, give us something! Your fans deserve to know!"

The parking lot stretched before us like a minefield. My black SUV sat under a shade tree, might as well have been in another country. I shifted Aria higher on my hip, feeling her dead weight—she'd gone completely limp, playing possum the way I'd taught her.

"Bad people, Mommy?" Her whisper barely reached my ear.

"No, baby. Just people doing their job." The lie tasted like ash. "Remember what we practiced? Big smile if they see us."

She lifted her head slightly, and I watched her arrange her features into the same practiced expression I wore on stage. Three years old and already performing. The photographers went wild at the sight of her face.

"She's beautiful! She looks just like you!"

"Aria, is that your name, sweetheart?"

"Do you like music like Mommy?"

I power-walked faster, keys already in my hand. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. The photographers walked backwards in front of us, their cameras never stopping. One stumbled over a parking barrier and cursed, but immediately got back up, still shooting.

"Mommy, I don't like this game," Aria whispered, and my heart shattered into pieces so small I'd never find them all.

"Almost to the car, baby. Almost done."

I beeped the locks open and yanked the door handle, practically diving into the backseat with Aria still attached to me. The photographers pressed against the windows immediately, flashes turning the interior into a lightning storm.

"Let's get you buckled, baby girl." My hands shook as I tried to maneuver her into her car seat. She wouldn't let go of my neck. "Aria, sweetie, I need you to sit in your seat."

"No! Stay with Mommy!"

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm just moving to the front seat." I peeled her arms away, hating myself for the fresh tears it caused. "Look, we can listen to your butterfly song. Would you like that?"

She nodded miserably, letting me buckle the five-point harness with practiced efficiency. The photographers kept shooting through the windows, shouting questions I couldn't hear over the blood rushing in my ears.

I climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, forcing myself to check mirrors and blind spots like this was any other Thursday. Like my entire world wasn't collapsing. The photographers scattered just enough to avoid being run over, but they kept shooting as I pulled away.

My phone connected to the car's Bluetooth, and notifications began reading out in the synthetic voice I usually found annoying:

"Cindy: Answer your fucking phone right now."

"Vanessa: Where are you? We're coming."

"Management: Emergency meeting immediately."

"Unknown number: This is TMZ. We'd love to offer you the chance to tell your side of the story..."

I jabbed the button to silence them all, glancing in the rearview mirror at Aria. She was humming to herself—the lullaby I used to sing when she was still inside me, when keeping her secret seemed not just possible but necessary.

"Mommy?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Are we in trouble?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. I met her eyes in the mirror—those perfect amber eyes that gave away her heritage every time she looked at someone.

"No, baby. We're not in trouble." Another lie, smooth as silk. "Some people just wanted to take our picture because Mommy sings songs."

"But you was scared." Not a question. A statement. My three-year-old had read my fear better than any trained interviewer.

"Sometimes grown-ups get scared too," I admitted, turning onto the main road. "But you know what? Mommy's going to fix everything. That's what mommies do."

The city blurred past us, normal people living normal lives, probably already pulling up the photos on their phones. By the time I reached the security gate of our neighborhood, I could see the news vans gathering like vultures. Our address would be public within hours. The careful walls I'd built around Aria's life had crumbled in the span of a playground visit.

My phone lit up with one final notification before I pulled into the garage: #TRINITYSecretBaby was trending number one worldwide.

Three years of hiding. Three years of lying. Three years of protection.

Gone in three minutes.

I turned off the engine and sat in the sudden silence, listening to Aria's hiccupping breaths from the backseat. Somewhere out there, Cole was probably seeing the pictures for the first time, maybe calculating if there was money to be made from the daughter he'd walked away from. My mother was probably watching the news in horror. The label executives were definitely calling emergency meetings.

But right now, in this moment, I had to unbuckle my daughter and walk into our house like the world hadn't just exploded. I had to make her lunch and put on cartoons and pretend that by tomorrow, her face wouldn't be on every gossip site in existence.

"Mommy?" Aria's voice, small and trusting. "Can we go back to the playground tomorrow?"

I closed my eyes, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.

"We'll see, baby. We'll see."