{Y/N} ran away from him the minute she learned what he really does for work. But when her daughter — the one he didn’t know about — goes missing, she goes straight to him for help.
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@lottieloo25The air that evening carried the first bite of autumn, and the station lights flickered overhead as they always did when the wind picked up.
Y/N stood outside the café, a paper cup warming her hands, waiting for the barista to bring out the second hot chocolate she’d ordered for Elena.
The door swung open.
A woman with a pram bumped past her, apologizing. A man in a grey coat checked his watch. The barista appeared, holding out the extra cup with a smile that faltered when she saw Y/N’s face.
Then Y/N turned.
The spot where Elena had been standing—right beside the lamppost, scuffing her shoes against the pavement—was empty.
A beat of silence. A car horn somewhere. The barista’s voice, distant: “Ma’am?”
Y/N’s cup hit the ground.
She spun, searching the street, the crowd, the alley between the buildings. Nothing. No small dark-haired figure in the yellow coat. No giggle. No “Mummy, look.”
“Elena?”
Her voice cracked on the name.
She ran.
The police station smelled like burnt coffee and stale air. Y/N sat on a plastic chair, her hands clasped so tight her knuckles were white, repeating the same words to the same officer.
“She was right there. I turned for one second. She was right there.”
The officer—a tired man with a thick mustache—wrote something down. “And you’re sure she didn’t wander off?”
“She wouldn’t—”
“Any family members who might have picked her up?”
Y/N’s throat closed. She shook her head.
“Your daughter’s father?”
A pause. Longer than it should have been.
“He’s not involved.”
The officer exchanged a glance with his partner.
Y/N stood abruptly. “You’re not going to find her. Not fast enough.”
“Ma’am, we’re doing everything—”
“Then do more.”
She was already walking out, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her teeth. She pulled out her phone, her fingers shaking as she scrolled to a contact she had told herself she would never call again.
Three years.
Three years.
The name glowed on the screen.
Mattheo
She pressed call before she could talk herself out of it.
The line rang once. Twice. Three times.
“The number you are trying to reach is not available—”
She swore, hung up, and dialed again.
Nothing.
She threw the phone onto the passenger seat and stared through the windshield at the rain beginning to fall.
She knew where he was.
She had always known.
The building was unmarked, somewhere in the industrial district, surrounded by warehouses and dead-end streets. The kind of place the police never asked questions about.
Y/N pulled up outside, cut the engine, and sat there, gripping the wheel.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her hands were trembling.
She got out anyway.
The concrete steps were cracked. The door was heavy steel, no sign, no window. She raised her fist and knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked again, harder.
The sound echoed.
She was about to knock a third time—her fist raised, her breath fogging in the cold air—when the door swung open.
A man stood in the doorway. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with a scar through his eyebrow and a watch on his wrist that cost more than Y/N’s rent.
He didn’t recognize her.
“This is a private—”
“I need to see Mattheo.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”
“Tell him it’s—” She swallowed, her voice breaking. “Tell him it’s her.”
The man studied her for a long moment. Then something shifted in his expression—recognition, maybe, or wariness.
He stepped aside.
“Wait here.”
The hallway was dim, concrete, smelling of cigarettes and something cleaner underneath. Y/N stood in the middle of it, shivering in her thin coat, her daughter’s face flashing behind her eyes every time she blinked.
Footsteps.
The door at the end of the hall opened.
And then he was there.
Mattheo Riddle.
He was taller than she remembered. Broader, harder. He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his dark hair was slightly disheveled, as if he’d just pushed his hand through it. He stopped dead when he saw her.
The silence stretched.
Then his voice, low and rough: “You’re alive.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “That’s your first question?”
He took a step closer. “I looked for you.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
His jaw tightened. “I thought you were dead.”
She looked away, her eyes stinging. “I need your help.”
His expression changed instantly. All the anger bled out of his face, replaced by something colder, sharper.
“What happened?”
“My daughter was taken.”
Mattheo went completely still.
“Your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Three.”
The question hung between them, heavy and inevitable.
Mattheo studied her face. Then, quietly: “Is she mine?”
Y/N couldn’t speak. She only nodded.
Everything changed.
For a second, his mask slipped completely—fury, disbelief, something raw and broken underneath. His hands clenched into fists.
Then he turned.
“Lorenzo. Lock down every exit. Draco—pull every camera between here and the café.” His voice was steel. “I want every contact we have looking. Now.”
Men scrambled.
Mattheo turned back to her. His voice was quieter now.
“Tell me everything.”