The door clicks shut behind Jordan, and suddenly the oxygen situation in my office becomes critical.
Mateo speaks first, voice careful. "Selene... are those really your kids?"
The photo on my desk suddenly weighs forty pounds. Three babies, big smiles, completely oblivious to detonating my entire life.
"Yes." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Three babies. Thirteen months old. Born in July, eight months after I left Philadelphia."
The math hangs in the air like a neon sign. Even a concussed goldfish could do this calculation.
Axel's face goes completely unreadable—that thing he does where he becomes a glacier in human form. Mateo's hands are shaking slightly, fingers gripping the back of the chair like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
I brace myself. This is where the accusations start. Where they demand answers, paternity tests, explanations for why I didn't tell them. Where everything gets messy and legal and—
"Are you okay?" Mateo asks.
I blink. That's not the question I expected.
"I mean—" He runs a hand through his curls, making them stand up in about seventeen different directions. "The pregnancy. Was it healthy? Did you have help? Were you—Jesus, Selene, were you alone?"
The tenderness in his voice catches me completely off guard. Like getting punched with a pillow filled with feelings.
"I managed," I say, which is both true and a complete dodge.
"That's not what I asked," Mateo says softly.
Axel's voice cuts through, quiet and precise. "We weren't there."
It's not a question. It's a statement of fact that lands like stones in still water.
Before I can respond—before I can figure out what to say to that—Axel cuts straight to it. "Are they Cassian's?"
My clinical brain kicks in like a well-oiled machine, thank God, because my emotional brain is currently having a small fire.
"No. The timeline doesn't work. I know this for a fact—Cassian is not the father and never was in the running."
I’ve spent countless sleepless nights rechecking the dates to make sure that my cheating ex has nothing to do with my children. Thank God for that.
Relief flashes across both their faces before they can hide it. Mateo actually sags against the chair. Axel's jaw unclenches by approximately one millimeter.
Then comes the harder question.
"So one of us..." Mateo doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to.
"I don't know." My answer is firm, final. "And I don't want to know. The babies are mine. End of discussion."
Axel's jaw goes tight enough to crack walnuts. Mateo looks like I just told him Santa isn't real and also his dog died.
"Selene—" Mateo starts.
"No." I stand up, pulling on every inch of Dr. Marlowe authority I possess. Professional armor, activate. "You're both new team members. That means mandatory acclimatization sessions. I'll schedule them separately. This conversation is over for now."
I walk out of my own office.
Just leave them standing there surrounded by the wreckage of twenty-two months of carefully constructed distance.
The rest of the day passes in a fog. Autopilot Selene takes over—answering questions about the new players with professional detachment, attending meetings, reviewing session notes. I smile at the right times. Nod appropriately. Maintain perfect composure.
Inside, I'm screaming into the void.
By the time I get home, I'm running on fumes and spite. My key barely makes it into the lock before the door swings open.
Naomi takes one look at my face and knows.
"Wine or whiskey?" she asks, already heading to the kitchen.
"Is 'both at once' an option?"
"That bad, huh?" She pours wine because she's a responsible adult, then adds whiskey to it because she's also a terrible influence. "Talk."
So I do. The whole story spills out while we sit on the couch—me holding Aria, Naomi with Sören, Elio doing his best impression of a demolition expert with his toy blocks.
The trade. Axel and Mateo walking into my office. The photo. Their faces when they realized. The math that anyone with two brain cells could figure out.
"They asked if I was okay," I say, staring at Aria's tiny fingers wrapped around mine. "That was Mateo's first question. Not 'are they mine' or 'why didn't you tell us'—just 'are you okay.'"
Naomi's quiet for a moment, watching Sören gum his fist contemplatively. "What do you want, Selene?"
"I don't know." The admission feels like defeat. "I spent two years building a life where I was enough. Me and the kids. That was the plan. Simple. Manageable. Mine."
"And now?"
"Now the past is standing in my facility wearing Sirens teal, and I have absolutely no idea what comes next."
Aria chooses this moment to grab my nose with surprising force for someone whose hand is approximately the size of a walnut. I gently extract myself from her death grip.
"You know what I think?" Naomi shifts Sören to her other hip. "I think you're terrified."
"Wow, thank you, Dr. Phil. Really insightful stuff."
"I'm serious." She pins me with that look—the one that says I'm your little sister but I see right through your bullshit. "You're scared that if you let them in, they'll leave again. That you'll trust them with the kids and yourself, and one morning you'll wake up to another note that just says 'yeah.'"
Direct hit. My chest tightens.
"I can't do that again," I whisper. "I can't let my kids get attached to people who might disappear."
"So what's the alternative? Hide forever? Pretend you don't have a history with two men who clearly still care about you? Selene, they looked at that photo and their first concern was whether you had support during the pregnancy. That's not nothing."
Elio throws a block across the room with impressive accuracy. It bounces off the wall and lands in my lap. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands.
"I don't know how to do this, Naomi. How to be Dr. Marlowe, and Mom, and... whatever this situation is trying to become."
"You don't have to figure it all out tonight." She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "But you do have to admit that hiding forever isn't an option anymore. They're here. They know about the kids. You can't un-ring that bell."
She's right. She's annoyingly, frustratingly, absolutely right.
"When did you get so wise?" I ask.
"I've always been wise. You were just too busy being perfect to notice."
I throw Elio's block at her. She catches it one-handed without dropping Sören, which is honestly impressive.
That night, after the babies are asleep and Naomi's gone to her room, I stand in the nursery doorway watching three tiny humans breathe. Aria's sprawled like a starfish. Elio's somehow wedged himself into the corner. Sören sleeps with his fist by his face, peaceful and perfect.
They're mine. That's the truth that matters.
But Naomi's words echo in my head: They looked at that photo and their first concern was whether you had support.
Not accusation. Not anger. Just concern.
I pull out my phone, stare at the scheduling app for my work calendar. Two mandatory acclimatization sessions need to be scheduled.