The nursery smelled faintly of lavender and powder. Mikhail had fallen asleep in her lap, his soft breaths brushing her arm. Lily stared down at him, memorizing the curve of his cheek, the curl of his lashes. He was hers—but he wasn't familiar. That realization ripped at her heart.
She gently laid him down in his bed, brushing a kiss against his forehead. Her limbs trembled as she stood.
Her reflection in the mirrored wall caught her off guard—same brown eyes, same full lips, same cascade of auburn hair… yet she looked like a stranger. Like someone else's wife. Someone else's mother.
A knock echoed on the doorframe. Damian.
He leaned against it, arms crossed, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His presence filled the room like smoke—dangerous and inescapable.
"How much do you remember?" he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes were sharp.
"Nothing." She didn't bother to lie. "Only my name. And now, apparently, that I have a son. And a husband who didn't visit me once in three weeks."
His jaw clenched. "I had… reasons."
"Business?" she guessed bitterly.
A muscle ticked in his temple. "You wouldn't understand."
"You're right," she snapped. "I don't understand. I don't understand anything. Why I married a man who looks at me like I'm a ticking bomb. Why I can't remember holding my child. Why the hell you didn't even show your face until today!"
He moved faster than she could process. In two strides, he was in front of her, towering. His hands gripped her arms—not hard, but firm.
"Because," he hissed, voice dangerously low, "the last time you saw me, you were trying to run away."
Her breath hitched. "What?"
"You left," he said, voice colder now. "That night. You took the car, you didn't tell anyone. You crashed before I could find you."
The room spun.
"So… I was trying to leave you?" she whispered.
His gaze locked with hers. There was something behind it—pain? Rage? Regret? She couldn't tell.
"Yes."
"Why?" Her voice cracked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, his eyes dropped to her mouth. Her breath caught. The air between them thickened, charged. His hand brushed her cheek, slow and rough with calluses. She didn't pull away.
He leaned in, and she felt the heat of his breath. "You used to beg me to touch you," he murmured darkly. "And now you flinch when I speak."
"I don't remember that woman," she said, her voice trembling.
"No," he said softly. "But your body might."
And then he kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was possessive, claiming, like he was trying to reawaken something inside her. And against all logic, something did stir—a spark in her blood, a pull she didn't understand.
But just as quickly, she pulled back, breathless and wide-eyed.
"You don't get to kiss me like that and keep secrets from me," she said, stepping away. "If I tried to run, I must've had a reason."
He stared at her for a long moment. "You did."
And then, he turned and walked away.
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