Aiden's POV
I'd negotiated hostile takeovers. Faced down boardrooms of skeptical investors. Built a billion-dollar empire from nothing but determination and sleepless nights.
None of it prepared me for Central Park with three four-year-olds.
I'd offered to take them for the afternoon after Elara mentioned needing to catch up on work—and needing space to think.
I saw it in her eyes when she came back from that café, the weight of whatever Michael had said to her. She was quieter. More conflicted. The kind of silence that meant someone was standing at a crossroads, trying to figure out which path wouldn't destroy them.
I didn't push. Pushing wasn't my style. But I also wasn't going to sit idle while she sorted through her feelings, and wasn't going to let Michael be the only one showing up.
So here I was, chasing Oliver through the Sheep Meadow while Lily demanded to examine every flower we passed and Ethan peppered me with questions I wasn't remotely qualified to answer.
"Why is the sky blue?"
"Light scattering through the atmosphere." I caught Oliver's hood just before he careened into a jogger. "The blue wavelengths scatter more than the others."
"Why?"
"Because physics says so."
"Why does physics say so?"
"That's an excellent question. I'll get you a book about it." I steered us toward the lake, hoping water might hold their attention longer than grass. "What else do you want to know?"
"Why do birds fly?"
"Wings. Hollow bones. Millions of years of evolution."
"Why is that man wearing a funny hat?"
I glanced at the man in question—a tourist in a foam Statue of Liberty crown. "Because he likes it. People wear things that make them happy."
Ethan considered this with alarming intensity. "Does your suit make you happy?"
"Not particularly. But it makes people take me seriously."
"I want people to take me seriously."
"Then speak clearly, listen carefully, and always ask good questions." I caught Oliver again, this time before he walked straight into the lake. "You're already excellent at the last one."
We made our way to the water's edge, and I taught Oliver to skip rocks. It took seventeen attempts before one actually skipped—more of a sad plop followed by a single bounce—but his face lit up like he'd conquered the world.
"Did you see that? DID YOU SEE?"
"I saw." I grinned despite myself. "You're a natural."
"I want to do it again!"
"Then find another flat one. The flatter, the better."
He scrambled off to search, and Lily tugged at my sleeve. She pointed at a tree where a wooden birdhouse hung from a high branch.
"There's a bird house up there. I want to see it."
I lifted her onto my shoulders without thinking, and she gasped with delight at the height. Her small hands gripped my hair for balance, pulling hard enough to make my eyes water.
"I can see EVERYTHING from here! I can see the whole entire world!"
"Not quite the whole world. But a pretty good chunk of it."
"Can I live up here?"
"On my shoulders? That might make meetings difficult."
"What's meetings?"
"Boring things adults do when they'd rather be skipping rocks."
We found a bench eventually, the kids eating ice cream that melted faster than they could lick it. Oliver had chocolate smeared from chin to eyebrow, a masterpiece of mess. Lily had somehow gotten strawberry in her hair, in her eyebrows, and on her shoes—a feat that defied physics. Ethan ate his methodically, rotating the cone with scientific precision to prevent drips, napkin tucked into his collar like a tiny gentleman.
I watched them and felt something settle in my chest. Peace, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
A woman stopped beside us, pushing an empty stroller. She was smiling—that warm, approving smile strangers gave to parents in public.
"Your children are adorable," she said. "They look just like you."
I froze.
Your children. Just like you.
The words echoed strangely, settling into my chest with a weight I wasn't prepared for. I looked at them—really looked. Oliver's sharp jaw. Ethan's intense dark eyes. Lily's stubborn little chin. Features I'd started to recognize in the mirror.
"Thank you," I managed. "Thank you."
I meant it more than she could possibly know.
The meltdown came when it was time to leave.
Oliver didn't want to go. He wanted to skip more rocks. Wanted more ice cream. Wanted to stay in this park forever and never go back to real life. His face crumpled, then contorted, then exploded into a full tantrum—screaming, kicking, throwing himself on the grass like the world was ending.
People stared. A mother pulled her own children closer, giving me that look—the one that said "control your kid" without using words.
I didn't yell. Didn't grab him. Didn't threaten or bribe or do any of the things I'd watched other parents do in desperation. Instead, I knelt down on the grass, right there in front of everyone watching, and spoke quietly.
"I know you're angry. It's okay to feel angry. Sometimes I feel angry too, when things don't go the way I want."
Oliver's screams faded to hiccups. He was listening.
"The anger feels really big right now, doesn't it? Like it's taking up your whole body."
A shaky nod.
"Let's make it smaller. Take some breaths with me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this."
I demonstrated—slow, deliberate, the same technique I used before board meetings when my anxiety spiked. Oliver copied me, shaky and wet-faced. Three breaths. Four. Five. The storm passed, leaving a small, exhausted boy in its wake.
"Can we come back tomorrow?" he asked in a small voice.
"We can come back whenever you want."
He reached up, arms extended, and I lifted him without hesitation. His small body pressed against my chest, sticky with ice cream and tears. His arms wrapped around my neck like I was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
Something cracked open inside me. Something that had been locked away for years, behind walls I'd built so carefully I'd forgotten they existed.
I carried Oliver back toward the park entrance, Lily holding my free hand, Ethan walking beside me and explaining in great detail why birds liked worms. Something about protein and easy digestion. The kid was four years old and already sounded like a nature documentary.
And I realized, with sudden and devastating clarity, that this wasn't just about Elara anymore.
I wasn't just fighting for her.
I was fighting for them. For these three chaotic, wonderful, exhausting children who had already claimed pieces of my heart I didn't know existed. For bedtime stories and rock-skipping lessons and meltdowns in public parks. For the privilege of being the person Oliver reached for when he needed to feel safe.
Whatever the DNA test said, these kids were mine. Maybe not biologically—I didn't know yet, might never know for certain—but in every way that mattered, I was already their father.
And I'd be damned if I let anyone take that away.
Oliver's breathing had steadied against my neck, his body growing heavy with the exhaustion that followed big emotions. Lily was humming something off-key, swinging my hand with each step. Ethan had moved on from worms to explaining the lifecycle of butterflies.
My family. Mine.
I didn't know what Elara would choose. Didn't know if Michael's history would outweigh whatever was building between us. Didn't know if I'd win this fight or lose everything.
But I knew one thing with absolute certainty: I wasn't walking away.
Not from her. Not from them.
Whatever it took.