Dominic’s POV
“Why does your son look like me, Selene?”
My voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it that I can’t contain. I watch her, waiting for a reaction, anything that might give her away. Selene sits across from me, her shoulders rigid, fists clenched tightly in her lap. Her jaw clenches, and I can see the fight in her eyes before she even opens her mouth.
“You’re imagining things,” she says, her tone clipped.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my desk. “Am I?”
Her lips press into a thin line. She’s trying to keep her emotions in check, but she’s failing. I notice the subtle quivering of her fingers against her skirt's fabric, a silent testament to her battling emotions. Her breath comes in quick, shallow gasps, barely contained.
“Rafael is my son,” she says, her voice quieter now, but there’s a steeliness beneath it. “Rosalie is my daughter. That’s all you need to know.”
I exhale slowly, scrutinizing her. She isn't lying outright, but she's definitely keeping something from me. And I won't allow anyone to conceal anything from me, especially when it pertains to me.
“You don't have the authority to determine what I need to know,” I state, maintaining my composure. “If Rafael is my son—”
“He’s not,” she cuts in sharply.
The words are too fast, too defensive.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you sure about that?”
Selene stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “This conversation is over.”
I watch as she grabs her bag, as if that’s all it takes to walk away from this. From me. But she’s wrong. She doesn’t get to dismiss me like this.
I stand too, stepping around my desk. “You can keep running, Selene, but I will find the truth.”
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t turn back. Instead, she walks out, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor, each step stiff with tension. The door closes behind her, and I stare at it for a long moment, my mind racing.
***
Two hours later, I sat at my desk, flipping through the file Lucian dropped in front of me.
It doesn’t make sense.
Selene Alvaroz, a woman who has lived in this city for years, practically didn't exist before six years ago. There are no school records, no employment history, no trace of her past life. It’s as if she appeared out of thin air.
But there is one thing.
A hospital record.
I clutch the paper tightly, my eyes scanning the words with urgency. Patient: Selene Alvaroz. Date of admission: Six years ago. Diagnosis: Pregnancy.
I exhale, my grip tightening on the page. She was pregnant. Six years ago.
And I don’t remember a damn thing.
As I strain to recall the past, my temples pulse with the effort. Despite my sharp memory, which typically doesn't falter or leave gaps, I find myself grasping for any recollection from that period.
But when I try to focus, my head pounds like a hammer against my skull. The harder I push, the more painful it becomes. A pressure builds, a void where memories should be.
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.
Then—a flicker.
The scent of whiskey. The sound of rain against a window. A low, breathy laugh. A voice—soft, teasing. A whisper in the dark.
My eyes snap open, and the memory vanishes like smoke.
I lean back in my chair, pressing my fingers against my temples. My head pulses with an unbearable ache. It’s not just a missing memory—it feels erased. Like someone wiped it clean.
That thought sends a slow, creeping chill down my spine.
Selene was pregnant six years ago. I was there that night. My instincts tell me this isn’t just a case of bad memory.
Someone didn’t want me to remember.
I reach for my phone and dial Lucian. The line rings twice before he picks up.
“Sir?”
“I need you to pull hospital security footage from six years ago,” I say, my voice low, controlled. “Any record of Selene Alvaroz being admitted. And find out who was with her.”
There’s a pause. Lucian has worked for me long enough to recognize the edge in my voice.
“I’ll get on it right away,” he says.
I hang up and stare down at the hospital file again. My fingers press into the paper as a sick feeling grows in my stomach.
Selene had twins.
And I’m sure as hell that they’re mine.