Kwan Khao drove home with her hands gripping the wheel tighter than usual, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds.
Every passing headlight made her tense, her heart jumping until the car finally turned down her quiet street.
Only when she parked in front of her townhouse did she let out a long, shaky breath.
No one had followed her.
God, if I ever have to see Pennueng again, I'll lose my mind.
The memory of his sharp, mocking gaze made her chest burn.
How dare he look at her that way?
After everything, he was the one who owed her an apology — not the other way around.
The sound of a door opening snapped her back to the present.
"Mama!"
A small boy burst out of the house, feet pattering against the pavement. Tonkla threw himself into her arms with all the energy of the world's happiest child.
"Kla missed you the most in the whole world!" he declared, using his nickname in that sweet, slightly lisped tone that never failed to melt her heart.
Behind him, Aunt Sai, their elderly neighbor and part-time nanny, followed with a smile.
"He wouldn't eat dinner," she said fondly. "Said he'd wait for you to come home. I made some food anyway, just in case you got stuck in traffic."
"Thank you so much," Kwan Khao replied softly.
Aunt Sai's smile faded when she saw Kwan Khao's face more clearly.
"Something happened, didn't it?"
Kwan Khao hesitated. "The company's been sold."
"Dear heaven," Aunt Sai gasped. "You won't be laid off, will you?"
"That's what surprises me," Kwan Khao said. She explained the strange contract—the two-year clause, the promise that she couldn't be dismissed.
Aunt Sai listened thoughtfully. Though she was a homemaker now, she'd once worked in a company herself and understood how unusual it was.
"That is odd," she agreed. "But maybe it's because you're good at what you do. The buyer must've discussed it with your old boss. They'll need someone experienced to keep things running smoothly through the transition. You've always been his right hand."
Kwan Khao smiled faintly. "Contract or not, I'd have stayed. I don't want anyone else losing their job if I can help it. Everyone's struggling already."
"Don't torment yourself with what hasn't happened yet," Aunt Sai said kindly. "Focus on what's here—your boy, your home. That's what matters most."
She paused, glancing toward the living room where Tonkla had gone to eat. "Speaking of your boy…"
Kwan Khao frowned. "What about him? He's been worried lately—something about his homework. He won't tell me what it is."
Aunt Sai sighed softly. "He's growing up, dear. When children start noticing the world, they also start comparing themselves to others. He's at that age when questions come—especially about his father."
The words hit Kwan Khao like a quiet blow.
Her throat tightened.
Tonkla's father.
The one name she'd buried deep and never dared speak aloud in this house.
Pennueng.
The man she'd sworn her son would never have to meet.