POV Adrian
The estate feels cavernous without Elena and the twins, every room echoing with absence. The nursery upstairs sits empty, the portable cribs gone, leaving only the ghost of what could have been.
Their presence last night makes it worse somehow—I can still smell Elena's perfume in the living room, still see the indentation on the couch where we lost ourselves in each other.
I can't stand it. The silence presses against my skull, making me want to tear the walls down with my bare hands.
Instead, I grab my keys and drive to my parents' house, needing their presence even if it means facing their disappointment.
My father's in his study when I arrive, reading the Financial Times with a brandy at his elbow despite it being barely noon.
He looks up when I enter, taking in my disheveled appearance—yesterday's clothes, unshaven, probably looking like hell.
"Adrian?" He sets down the paper. "What's wrong?"
"Everything," I say, collapsing into the leather chair across from him. "I need a drink."
He pours me three fingers of brandy without comment, then calls for my mother. She arrives quickly, her face creasing with concern when she sees me.
"Darling, what's happened? Where are Elena and the babies?"
"Sit down, Mom," I say quietly. "I need to tell you both something. Everything, actually."
My parents' faces are filled with terrible suspicions, my mother places her hand on her heart, slowly sinking onto the couch. I console her—nothing so tragic happened. Probably.
Over the next hour, I tell them the truth. All of it. The fertility issues I hid from everyone, including Elena. The test results showing I was the problem. How I let Elena believe she was broken rather than admit my own failing.
My mother's tears start when I describe Elena coming to tell me about the pregnancy, how she was glowing with joy only to find me with Vivian. They continue through my description of accusing Elena of cheating, telling her to abort our children or leave.
"You didn't," my mother whispers, her hand over her mouth.
"I did," I confirm, the shame burning in my chest. "I threw away my pregnant wife because I couldn't face the truth that she'd achieved a miracle—conceiving despite my issues."
I tell them about Vivian's lies, how she manipulated me into believing Elena was having affairs. About the divorce papers still unsigned. A
bout Henri, the Frenchman who found Elena when she was broken and made her believe in love again.
"Last night," I continue, staring into my brandy, "Elena and I... reconnected. I thought maybe we had a chance. But there's so much damage, so much I have to make up for."
My father's face has hardened with each revelation, his disappointment palpable. When I finish, the silence is deafening.
"You're a fool, son," he finally says, blunt as always. "A complete fool. You had everything, a devoted wife, miracle children, and you destroyed it all because of what?."
"Richard," my mother starts, but he cuts her off.
"No, Margaret. He needs to hear this. The Blackwood name, the legacy, none of it matters without family. And you threw yours away because you couldn't admit you weren't perfect."
"I know," I say miserably. "I know what I've done."
Seeing my devastation, they both soften. My mother moves to sit beside me, taking my hand in hers.
"Whatever Elena chooses, you must respect it," she says gently but firmly. "You failed her as a husband, Adrian, failed her when she needed you most. But you can still be a good father to those babies."
"The twins deserve that much," my father adds, his tone gentler now. "Even if she chooses someone else. You need to think about what's best for them, not what you want."
"I know you're right," I say, though accepting it feels like swallowing glass. "But I love her. I've never stopped loving her. And last night proved she still feels something too."
"Feeling something and trusting someone are very different things," my mother says wisely. "You broke her trust in the worst possible way. That takes time to rebuild, if it can be rebuilt at all."
I'm contemplating calling Elena, rehearsing apologies and promises in my head, even though she asked for space. Then, my phone buzzes. Elena’s name on the screen makes my heart race.
But the message is brief, clinical, like she's cutting off a limb:
Elena: "Henri, the twins, and I are moving to France. Forever. I'm sorry, but it's best for them, for you and for me."
I read it three times before the words sink in. France. Forever. My children, an ocean away, growing up calling another man Papa.
"No," I breathe, then louder, "NO!"
"Adrian, what…" my mother starts, but I'm already moving.
Without explanation I get up and sprint to my Bentley, leaving my stunned parents calling after me. The heart beats in my throat, in my ears, in my head.
The engine roars to life, and I tear through traffic, weaving between cars, running red lights, not caring about tickets or accidents or anything except getting to Elena before it's too late.
The drive to her apartment is a blur of honking horns and squealing tires. I take the stairs three at a time, my legs burning, my chest heaving. I pound on her door until my fists ache.
"Elena! ELENA! Open the door! Please, we need to talk!"
Silence.
I pound harder, not caring that I'm making a scene. "Elena, please! Don't do this! Don't take them! Don’t go!"
Mrs. Chen's door opens, and the elderly woman peers out, looking concerned and slightly afraid.
"She left this morning," she says quietly. "Early. Had luggage and the babies. Her ‘friend’ was helping her."
"Did she say where?" I demand, probably looking deranged.
"The airport. Said she wasn't coming back." Mrs. Chen's expression softens slightly. "Such a good girl and such wonderful children... I was so sad to part with them."
I can't breathe. Can't think. The airport. If they haven't left yet…
I don't finish the thought, already running back down the stairs. Back in the Bentley, I drive like a man possessed, like my life depends on it—because it does. My children are my life, and they're about to disappear across an ocean.
With my wife I’ve already lost once.
I weave through traffic, laying on the horn, cutting across lanes. A red light means nothing. The speedometer climbs past ninety on the highway. If I get pulled over, I'll lose them. If I don't make it in time, I'll lose them anyway.
"Please," I pray to any god listening, to the universe, to karma I probably don't deserve. "Please let there be delays. Weather, mechanical issues, anything. Just don't let them leave. Don't let me lose them forever."
The airport finally comes into view, and I abandon the car in the departure zone, not caring about towing or fines. I have minutes, maybe less.
I run through the automatic doors, searching the departure board frantically for flights to France.
Air France to Paris. Gate 47. Boarding.
My children and the love of my life are boarding a plane to a new life, and I'm about to lose everything that matters because I was too much of a coward to fight for them when it counted.
But I'm fighting now. I just pray it's not too late.