“We’re leaving,” Elena said.

“But cheesy bread,” Liam complained.

“Now.”

She struggled with the stroller, her hands trembling so badly she couldn’t find the latch. Rainwater dripped from the umbrella onto the floor. Her breathing came too quickly. Sebastian crossed the room in three long strides, and she flinched before he was even close.

“Don’t,” she snapped.

He stopped immediately.

“Who are they?”

“They’re my children.”

His eyes moved from one small face to the next.

“No,” he said quietly. “They’re mine.”

At first, the words didn’t sound accusatory.

They sounded like a c@tastrophe finding a voice.

A spark flashed in Elena’s eyes.

“They are mine.”

He lowered himself slightly, bringing himself closer to the children’s height. He wasn’t sure why. Instinct perhaps. Fear. Longing. Liam met his gaze without hesitation. Noah stared at the floor. Chloe wrapped her arms tighter around Elena’s leg as if determination alone could keep her mother from moving. 

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“You’re tall,” Liam observed.

Sebastian nearly laughed, but the sound never escaped.

“Yes.”

“You look like the man in Mommy’s book.”

A strangled little noise escaped Elena.

Sebastian looked up at her.

“What picture?”

“A story picture,” she answered quickly. “Nothing. Liam talks too much.”

“No, I don’t,” Liam argued.

“Yes, you do,” Noah murmured.

“Both of you stop,” Elena said, her voice breaking.

Sebastian rose to his feet.

“How old are they?”

She began fastening the children into the stroller with frantic speed.

“Elena.”

“Move.”

“How old?”

She pushed the stroller toward the entrance.

“Elena.”

The bell above the door rattled violently as she forced her way outside into the rain.

Sebastian followed her onto the sidewalk.

A city bus thundered past, sending water spraying across the curb. Cars hissed through puddles. Elena struggled with the stroller, her hair slipping loose from its bun, her face wet with rain and panic.

He reached for her arm.

She pulled away as though his touch would burn her.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You had my children,” he said, raising his voice above the noise of traffic. “You had my children, and you never told me.”

“You told me you didn’t want children.”

The words hit harder than any slap could have.

“That was five years ago.”

“No,” she said, rain and tears blending together on her face. “That was the day I finally saw who you really were.”

“You had no right.”

“I had every right to protect them.”

“Protect them from their father?”

“Protect them from a man who said a baby would ruin his life.”

The weight of memory crashed down on him.

Their final argument returned in perfect detail.

Astoria.

Their old bedroom.

An open suitcase lying across the bed.

Sebastian packing for Singapore while his phone lit up every few minutes with messages from investors, attorneys, board members—people who would smell weakness the second he hesitated. Elena standing in the doorway, twisting her wedding ring, telling him she wanted a life. A   family. Some proof that the man she had married still existed beneath the machine he had become. 

And him.

God.

Him.

“A child?” he had snapped, worn thin by ambition and exhaustion. “Are you out of your mind? A child is the last thing I need right now. It would destroy everything I’m trying to build.”

He remembered the way the light disappeared from her eyes.

He remembered seeing it happen.

And still choosing the suitcase.

Back on the sidewalk, Elena tightened her grip on the stroller handle.

“You chose the company. Then you chose another woman. Then you chose your mother’s version of the future. I chose them.”

“I never cheated on you.”

She let out a bitter, exhausted laugh.

“You still lie like a billionaire. Smooth enough to sound convincing.”

“I didn’t.”

“I saw the photographs.”

“What photographs?”

“The ones from Singapore. You and Catherine Davies sitting in that hotel bar. Her hand on your knee. The email explained everything.”

The rain suddenly felt colder.

Sebastian stared at her.

“An email?”

“Yes.”

“Who sent it?”

“I don’t know. It was anonymous. Does it matter?”

Every instinct he possessed sharpened instantly.

He knew this feeling from business.

The moment random pieces of information suddenly began fitting together into a pattern nobody else had noticed.

Catherine Davies.

Singapore.

The hotel bar.

Anonymous photographs sent to Elena.

His mother asking far too many questions about Elena before the trip. 

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No.

It couldn’t be.

But possibility meant nothing.

Patterns did.

“Elena,” he said carefully, “I never touched Catherine. Her husband was there that night. Half the team was sitting with us.”

“I saw—”

“You saw exactly what somebody wanted you to see.”

Her expression shifted.

Not to belief.

Not to forgiveness.

To doubt.

It crossed her face like a fresh wound.

“I deleted them,” she whispered. “I deleted everything.”

“Do you still have the device?”

“I don’t know.”

“Any backups? Old hard drives? Anything at all?”

She stared at him as though he had suddenly become a stranger.

“Why?”

“Because if somebody created that evidence,” he said, his voice rough with an emotion he could barely identify, “then you didn’t simply leave me. We were pulled apart.”

Her gaze dropped to the children.

Noah was silently crying.

Liam looked scared now.

Chloe glared at Sebastian as though she had already cast him as the villain in every story she knew.

Elena pushed the stroller farther away from him.

“I don’t care what you find,” she said. “Stay away from my children.”

“Our children.”

“No,” she replied sharply. “You don’t get to step out of the past and rewrite the grammar.”

Then she turned the corner and v@nished into the rain.

Sebastian remained on the sidewalk long after she had disappeared.

His driver pulled the Rolls-Royce alongside the curb, but Sebastian didn’t move. His coat was soaked through. Water dripped from his hair onto his forehead. Passersby shot him irritated glances as they hurried past. Somewhere behind him, the bistro bell rang once more.

Three little faces.

Three familiar pairs of eyes.

Three lives that had existed in the same city without him.

For the first time in years, Sebastian Thorne felt something more powerful than control.

Loss.

By the time he returned to his penthouse, rain had transformed the city into a shimmering sheet of glass. The private elevator opened into complete silence. Everything inside was flawless—Italian marble floors, beige linen furniture, carefully selected sculptures, a fireplace controlled by an app, and a dining table large enough for twelve people where nobody had ever laughed without first considering whether it was appropriate. The air smelled faintly of cedar, leather, and the expensive emptiness of rooms nobody truly lived in. 

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He poured himself a glass of whiskey.

Then poured another.

The second one remained untouched.

His phone lit up.

Isabelle.

Tasting is at 6. Don’t be late. My mother is already annoyed about the seating arrangement.

He stared at the message and realized he felt absolutely nothing.

Not annoyance. Not affection. Not guilt.

Nothing.

Instead, he called Clayton Morris.

Clayton was a senior partner at Sterling, Morris & Howe, Isabelle’s  family law firm, and one of the few people in New York ruthless enough to understand Sebastian without trying to impress him. 

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“Mr. Thorne,” Clayton answered. “I thought you were in a board meeting.”

“I need you to find my ex-wife.”

A brief silence followed.

“Sorry?”

“Elena Sanchez. She has children. My children. Triplets. I want DNA testing, custody options, a financial assessment, and a complete background report.”

Another silence followed.

“Sebastian, this requires a delicate approach.”

“I don’t pay you for anything delicate.”

“No,” Clayton replied. “But judges usually do.”

Sebastian closed his eyes.

“I want full custody.”

This time, Clayton’s silence carried a different weight.

“Are the children safe?”

The question irritated him.

Then it embarrassed him.

“I don’t know.”

“Are they being neglected?”