The address Adrian sent leads to our old estate—the house I swore I'd never enter again, the mausoleum of our dead marriage.
I throw cash at the taxi driver without counting, probably giving him a hundred for a thirty-dollar ride, stumbling out on shaking legs that barely hold me.
Adrian waits on the porch, but something's wrong with this picture. He's in gray sweatpants and a worn Columbia University t-shirt, looking more casual than I've seen him in years.
Not the crisis outfit of a panicked father. Not the suit he'd wear to a hospital or police station.
He frowns at my approach, jogging down the marble steps to meet me. Before I can demand answers about the twins, his hands grip my shoulders with unexpected gentleness.
"Elena, what…" He stops mid-sentence, studying my face with those dark eyes that once knew every expression.
He takes in everything—the ruined makeup, the mascara streaked down my cheeks like war paint, the tears still wet from Henri's departure.
"Why were you crying? What did that French bastard do to you?"
His thumb brushes a tear I didn't know was still there, the touch so gentle it makes my chest ache.
"Just tell me what's wrong with the twins!" I wrench away from his touch, my voice cracking on hysteria. "Where are they? What happened? Are they breathing? Why did you…"
Adrian's confusion is genuine, his brow furrowing in that way that creates a small line between his eyes.
"They're upstairs, sleeping soundly. Elena, I'm sorry if my message was unclear. I meant we need to discuss something about them, not that something was wrong…"
The relief hits like a physical blow, like someone's pulled the ground out from under me.
My legs give out completely, the weight of losing Henri and the adrenaline crash hitting simultaneously. The world tilts, goes gray at the edges, and I'm falling.
Adrian catches me before my knees hit the marble steps, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back, pulling me against his chest.
"I've got you," he murmurs, lifting me easily, carrying me like he used to when we were newlyweds, when being in his arms meant safety instead of sorrow.
"I can walk," I protest weakly, but my body betrays me, shaking uncontrollably against him.
"No, you can't," Adrian says simply, carrying me through the front door I once considered mine. "You're shaking like a leaf. Just let me help."
The foyer looks exactly the same—marble and crystal and fresh flowers on the console. Like time stopped the night I left. The familiar scent of lemon polish and expensive candles makes my chest tighten with memories.
He settles me on the leather couch in the living room, the one we picked out together five years ago, arguing about the color for weeks. I wanted cognac, he wanted black. We compromised on espresso.
"Water?" he offers, already moving to the bar.
"No." My voice is hoarse from crying, raw from begging Henri to stay. “Whiskey would do”
He pours me Macallan—the twenty-five year he saves for special occasions, and presses the crystal tumbler into my trembling hands.
"You look like you're about to pass out."
The burn helps, slightly, anchoring me to the present moment instead of the hotel room where my life just exploded.
"I thought something happened to them," I manage between sips. "Your message 'urgent,' 'concerns our children'... I thought they were hurt or sick or—"
"God, Elena, I'm sorry." Adrian sits beside me, closer than we've been in months without the twins between us.
His weight makes the cushion dip, tilting me slightly toward him. "I didn't think about how it would sound. I was just trying to get you here to talk. I never meant to scare you like that."
"What kind of person sends a message like that?!" I take another sip, larger this time. "Do you know what went through my head? Every horrible scenario, every parent's worst nightmare."
"I'm sorry," he repeats, genuinely, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm an idiot. I just… I needed to see you, to talk to you about something important, and I knew you wouldn't come otherwise."
"You're right, I wouldn't have." The whiskey is working, smoothing the sharp edges of panic. "This house has too many ghosts."
"It's just a house," Adrian says quietly, but his eyes drift to the mantle where our wedding photos used to sit. The spaces are still there, slightly darker rectangles on the wood.
"It's fine," I say. "Everything's fine."
But nothing's fine, and we both know it. I'm sitting in my old house with my unofficial-ex-husband, having just lost the man who made me believe in love again.
"What happened with Henri?" Adrian asks carefully, like he's approaching a wounded animal. "When you arrived, you looked... destroyed. Did he hurt you?"
The whiskey makes me honest, or maybe I'm just too tired of endless lies. "The truth came out. About the twins being mine. About you. He never wants to see me again."
I expect satisfaction in Adrian's eyes, triumph that his rival is gone. Maybe even a smirk, that cold expression he gets when he wins a business deal. Instead, his response surprises me completely.
"He's an idiot," Adrian says quietly, staring into his own whiskey. "Abandoning an incredible woman over something as natural as having children and an ex-husband who can't forget her."
The confession hangs heavy between us. But I can't process it, not now, not with Henri's accusations still ringing in my ears.
"Don't," I warn him. "Don't pretend you care now. Not after everything."
"I'm not pretending anything," Adrian says. "I'm just stating facts. Any man who could walk away from you and our children…"
"I lied to him for nine months, Adrian!" The words explode out of me. "Nine months of pretending they were my sister's, that you were her ex-husband. He had every right to leave."
"You were protecting yourself," Adrian says. "And our children. That's what mothers do."
"What did you mean about 'our children' if the twins are fine?" I ask, needing to focus on something other than the sympathy in his voice. "What was so urgent it couldn't wait until morning?"
Adrian's hands clench and unclench on his thighs, his jaw working like he's chewing glass. The silence stretches so long I think he won't answer. He takes a long drink of whiskey, then another, like he's gathering courage.
"We should have discussed this years ago," he finally says, his voice rough. "I should have told you the truth when it mattered, when it could have saved us."
My stomach drops, bracing for another betrayal, another secret, another way he's failed me. "What truth? What are you talking about?"
Adrian continues, his voice getting rougher with each word.
"The real reason I pulled away, why we couldn't conceive—it wasn't your fault, Elena. The doctors told me a year before we separated that the problem was likely me. I was the reason you couldn't get pregnant."