Michael's POV
I hadn't slept in three days.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Elara's face in that office. Tear-streaked. Terrified. Confessing that she didn't know whose children they were. Three children. Triplets. Four years old. The math kept running through my head on an endless loop—the night of our anniversary, the pregnancy that would have followed, the birth I never witnessed, the years of first steps and first words and first everything that I missed.
If they were mine. They might be mine.
Or they might be Aiden Wolfe's.
The thought made me want to destroy something. Put my fist through a wall. Scream until my throat bled. Rewind time and do everything differently—stay in that hotel room, never step into the hallway, never give some stranger the chance to touch what was mine.
But I couldn't change the past. I could only fight for the future.
I cornered Aiden in the Wolfe Industries parking garage Friday evening. Calculated—I'd waited until the building emptied, until there were no witnesses, until I could say what needed to be said without consequences. He was walking toward his car, keys in hand, when I stepped out from behind a concrete pillar.
"Stay away from her."
He stopped. Didn't look surprised—barely looked concerned. Just studied me with those cold, assessing eyes, like I was a minor inconvenience interrupting his evening.
"That's not your decision to make."
"The hell it isn't." I stepped closer, fists clenched at my sides. "She was mine. We were together for two years. That night was supposed to be special—our anniversary, our first time—and you walked into that room and took something that wasn't yours."
"And yet you married someone else three years ago." His voice was calm. Almost bored. "Seems like you moved on fine."
The words hit like a physical blow. My vision blurred with rage.
"You don't know anything about what I went through. She disappeared. Left me with nothing—no explanation, no closure. I spent months looking for her."
"And then you stopped looking." He tilted his head slightly. "Stopped searching and married her best friend. Meanwhile, she spent five years alone raising three children. Struggling. Surviving. Walking the floor with sick babies at three in the morning with no one to help." His jaw tightened. "So don't talk to me about suffering."
My hand swung back before I realized what I was doing. My fist stopped inches from his face—some last shred of self-control catching me before I crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
Aiden didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
"Feel better?" he asked quietly.
"If those kids are mine," I said through gritted teeth, "I'll fight for them. And for her."
"Then I guess we both will."
We stood there in the gray concrete silence, two men on opposite sides of an impossible situation. Finally, I turned and walked away. I didn't trust myself to stay.
The drive back to the hotel was a blur of traffic lights and racing thoughts. By the time I stepped into the suite, my rage had cooled into something worse: emptiness.
Sienna met me at the door, concern painted across her face. "Where have you been? You didn't answer your phone."
I looked at her—really looked—and felt nothing. Not love. Not attraction. Not even comfort. Just a hollow space where something should be.
"I'm fine. Just work stuff."
She reached for me, and I sidestep her touch without thinking. Her face flickered with hurt, then smoothed into that practiced smile.
"I made dinner. Your favorite."
"I'm not hungry."
I walked past her toward the bedroom, but her voice stopped me.
"Michael, wait." She followed, arms crossed. "We need to talk about logistics. The hotel reservation ends in three days, and you've basically closed the deal with Wolfe Industries. We should head back home." She softened her voice. "Besides, we were supposed to meet with the contractor about the kitchen renovation, remember? The house plans?"
The house. The renovation. The life we'd been building together—or the life she'd been building while I went through the motions.
"I'm extending the reservation," I said. "Couple more weeks."
Silence.
"A couple more weeks?" Her voice sharpened. "Why? What's left to do here?"
"The deal isn't finalized. There are... complications. The other party is significantly delaying things."
She stared at me, and I watched her process what I wasn't saying. Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"Is this about Elara?"
My heart stopped. "What?"
"The old friend from college." Her tone was careful, measured—the way you speak to someone you suspect is lying. "The one you ran into. You've been different ever since that day, Michael. Distracted. Distant. Checking your phone every five minutes like you're waiting for something. And now you want to stay in New York for two more weeks?"
"It's work, Sienna. That's all."
"You're acting strange." She stepped closer, searching my face for cracks in the facade. "You barely talk to me. You flinch when I touch you. You come home late smelling like parking garages and whiskey." Her voice cracked, vulnerability bleeding through the accusation. "What's going on? What aren't you telling me?"
I should tell her. Should confess everything—Elara, the children, the possibility that my entire life was built on sand. That I'd never stopped loving someone else. That our marriage had been a lifeboat I'd climbed into while drowning, not a ship I'd chosen to sail.
But the words wouldn't come. Not yet. Not until I knew the truth myself.
"Nothing's going on." I forced my voice steady. "I'm just stressed about the deal. That's all."
She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes—the suspicion hardening into certainty, the hurt transforming into something colder. But she didn't push. Just nodded slowly, stepped back, and let me walk away.
We both knew something had shifted. Something that couldn't be unshifted.
I closed the bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed in darkness, staring at nothing.
I'd married Sienna because she was there. Because she filled the silence Elara left behind. Because it was easier than being alone with my grief. She'd been a bandage I'd pressed against a wound that never stopped bleeding—functional, necessary, but never actually healing anything underneath.
I never loved her. Not really. Not the way I loved Elara.
And now Elara was back. With three children who might be mine. Three children who had her eyes, her stubborn chin, her laugh that could light up a room. Three children who'd grown up without a father while I played house with another woman.
And there was Aiden—looking at her the way I used to, the way I still wanted to. Like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing. Like he'd tear down his empire brick by brick if she asked him to.
I was going to lose her again. I could feel it slipping through my fingers, the same way it had five years ago. History repeating itself, and I was standing on the same side of the door, watching her walk away.
Unless I fought.
I pulled out my phone and stared at Elara's number. The one I'd gotten from the Wolfe Industries directory. The one I'd been too afraid to use, too worried about what she'd say, what she'd tell me to do with myself.
Not anymore. Fear hadn't gotten me anywhere. Fear had cost me five years.
I typed out a message, deleted it, typed it again. My thumb hovered over send.
Whatever it took. Whatever I had to do. Whatever bridges I had to burn.
I wasn't giving up without a fight.