Slow Slow Song

I asked Anthony to marry me ninety-nine times, and each time he found a fresh reason to refuse.

On the hundredth try, I came utterly unprepared.

It was his birthday. I just walked up, perfectly calm, and asked, “Anthony, will you marry me?”

He was playing cards with friends and snorted with a laugh.

“Victoria, are you insane? I’ve told you a million times—I’m never getting married. Especially not to you.”

I stood, smiled at him, and said, “Alright. I understand now. Anthony, we’re done.”

Then I turned and walked away without a single glance back.

He probably thought it was just another one of my games, another attempt to play hard to get. He never even looked up.

The very next day, the gossip headlines exploded. Anthony, heir to the Aster Group, had publicly announced his engagement.

His fiancée was Violet, a junior from his college days.

I deleted everything connected to him and booked the earliest flight out of the country.

Six years later, I ran into him at a gala, my daughter Christina beside me.

The moment he saw Christina, he froze mid-step.

“That’s my daughter…”

I flinched, pulling Christina back and holding her tighter.

“Victoria, you have some nerve! You hid this from me? You went and had my child behind my back? Was this your plan all along—to trap me with a kid and force me to marry you?”

…

I was standing quietly by the dessert table in the corner, holding my daughter’s hand.

“Mommy, Christina wants that strawberry cake,” she said in her tiny voice, pointing at an elegant mousse cake.

I smiled and patted her head. “Okay, sweetie. Mommy will get it for you.”

Just as I picked up a plate, a server hurried over. Her eyes held a flicker of poorly concealed disdain. “Ma’am, these desserts are reserved for VIP guests.”

Pausing, I understood. Dressed simply today in a plain white dress, no makeup or flashy jewelry, I must have looked out of place in such opulent surroundings. She’d probably pegged me as a gold-digger who’d sneaked in for free food and a rich husband.

Not wanting trouble, I offered a polite smile. “Actually, I’m—”

She cut me off impatiently. “Save it. I don’t need to know who you are. If you want something, wait until the event’s over. We can pack up leftovers for you. But not now. Mr. Anthony and his party will be here soon, and I can’t have the display messed up.”

Anthony. Of course.

My expression cooled. “I’m just getting a piece of cake for my child. Is that your usual attitude?”

“It’s the attitude you deserve,” she retorted, self-righteous. “Bringing a kid to a place like this… I wonder what you’re really after.”

Her tone turned uglier. Christina seemed to sense the tension, her small hand clutching my skirt, a flicker of fear in her eyes.

I was about to retort when a voice came from behind me—a voice etched into my bones, yet so