Thursday morning arrived wrapped in a deceptive calm.
The kind of stillness that could almost convince someone that the past didn't exist.
Aria stirred oatmeal in slow circles, the wooden spoon trailing patterns in the thickening mixture. Her thoughts weren't on breakfast. They hadn't been on anything mundane since yesterday's meeting with Elias Blackwood. Her muscles ached with tension, her chest tight with the burden of secrets she'd carried for too long.
The kettle hissed behind her.
And then—three knocks.
Firm. Intentional.
Not impatient. Not casual.
They echoed once, then settled into the silence like a verdict.
Her hand stilled in the pot. Her breath caught. Every part of her stilled—except for her heart, which now pounded with a certainty her mind tried to deny.
Eli looked up from his cereal, milk clinging to the corner of his mouth. "Mommy," he said, swinging his legs, "someone's at the door!"
Aria wiped her hands on a towel, her eyes locked on the apartment's front. Each step felt heavier than the last.
She opened the door.
And time fractured.
Elias Blackwood stood before her, composed as ever, yet not untouched by emotion. His charcoal coat clung to his frame like the tension clung to the space between them. His eyes—gray, sharp, clouded with too many thoughts—searched hers as if they might hold the answer to something he'd only just dared to ask.
Aria's grip tightened on the doorframe. "Elias?" Her voice was barely audible.
He didn't smile. "We need to talk."
She stepped out quickly, pulling the door shut behind her with more urgency than she intended. Shielding. Protecting. Hiding what he could already sense.
"There's nothing left to talk about," she said. Her voice held strength. But her hands betrayed her, trembling ever so slightly.
Elias didn't miss the movement.
And he didn't miss the way her body angled just enough to block the interior from his view.
"I'm not here to cause a scene," he said, voice measured. "Just... questions. That's all."
"You always come with questions," she said bitterly, "when the answers are already too late."
A long pause.
And then—he asked.
"Is there a child?"
Her throat closed.
This moment. This question. It had haunted her for years. She'd scripted responses in her head—harsh ones, tender ones, avoidant ones. None of them prepared her for the weight of hearing it aloud.
"Elias…" Her lips parted, but words stumbled.
His gaze didn't waver. "I deserve the truth, Aria. Don't insult me with silence. Yesterday—there was something in your eyes. I saw it."
She looked away.
And then came the smallest sound.
A tug. A voice.
"Mommy?"
Eli.
Aria turned sharply, instinct driving her.
But Elias had heard.
He didn't need to see the boy. He didn't need anything more.
His voice, barely above a whisper: "Is he mine?"
She closed her eyes, one hand pressed to the door like it could hold her whole world together.
"Yes."
It was a confession, not just a confirmation.
Elias took a step back. His composure cracked—not visibly, not dramatically—but something shifted in his stance. In his breath.
"How old is he?" His voice was raw.
"Four."
His eyes closed.
She added quietly, "He doesn't know you. He doesn't know what a father is."
His head rose again. And the pain was there now, unhidden.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.
Aria looked him straight in the eyes, and for the first time in a long time, let her truth breathe.
"Because you didn't want a family, Elias. You wanted a contract. A merger. A paper-wife to complete your empire. And I wasn't going to raise a child where love came with terms and expiry dates."
His silence was a void.
"I was scared," she admitted. "And by the time I found the courage, you were already gone."
"I never left," he said softly, "not really."
Her breath hitched.
"Please," she said, voice faltering, "just leave us in peace."
But he shook his head slowly. "You don't get to make that call anymore. He's my son."
"You don't know how to be a father."
"Maybe not," he said. "But I'll learn. Because I already missed four years. I'm not missing the rest."
She looked at him. For a second, it wasn't Elias the CEO or Elias the man who'd once broken her heart.
It was Elias, the man facing a truth he never saw coming—and not walking away from it.
"You can't rewrite history," she whispered.
His voice was steady. "I'm not trying to rewrite it. I'm trying to be part of what's left."
Then he turned and walked away.
No slammed doors. No raised voices.
Just a storm quietly leaving—only to gather force somewhere else.
That night, Aria stood by the window, city lights blinking like stars trying to compete with the chaos in her chest.
She had once walked away from Elias Blackwood and survived the cost.
But watching him walk back?
That might break her.
Behind her, Eli slept—his world still intact, for now.
And somewhere, Elias sat in his car, hands on the steering wheel, the city blurring through his windshield.
Not because of the shock of discovering a son.
But because of the pain of never truly letting go of the woman who had given him one.
He hadn't just come for the boy.
He was coming for her, too.