Michael's POV
I was losing her. I could feel it slipping away—every chance, every possibility, every future I'd imagined when I first saw her in that conference room. And the worst part was, I could see exactly who was taking her from me.
Aiden Wolfe. The name tasted like poison on my tongue.
Every time I saw the kids, they talked about him. "Aiden taught me how to skip rocks." "Aiden makes the best pancakes." "Aiden knows all the dinosaur names." "Aiden showed me how to breathe when I'm angry." It was relentless, this constant reminder that another man was building relationships with children who might be mine. Who should be mine.
Oliver especially. The boy who struggled with tantrums, who I couldn't seem to reach no matter what I bought him—he worshipped Aiden. Called him by name like they were old friends. Asked for his "breathing trick" like it was magic instead of just deep breaths.
I tried harder. Showed up with elaborate gifts—a remote-control helicopter, a dollhouse that cost more than most people's rent, tickets to a sold-out Disney on Ice. I planned outings to fancy restaurants, to exclusive museum exhibits, to anywhere that might impress them. I wanted them to see that I could give them things. That I could provide.
But the kids always seemed tired afterward. Overstimulated. Asking when they could go home.
Asking when they'd see Aiden again.
I watched Elara when she didn't know I was looking. The way her face changed when Aiden's name came up—soft, unguarded, lit from within like someone had kindled a fire behind her eyes. She never looked at me that way. Not anymore. Maybe not ever again.
It broke something inside me.
I cornered her after dropping the kids off one evening, catching her in the hallway before she could retreat inside.
"Are you sleeping with him?"
Elara's eyes went wide. "What? No!"
"But you want to."
She didn't answer. Her silence stretched between us, damning and definitive. I watched her face cycle through emotions—guilt, defiance, something that looked painfully like pity.
"Michael, it's not that simple—"
"It is that simple." I stepped closer, and she stepped back. That retreat cut deeper than any words could have. "Either you want him or you don't. Either you want me or you don't."
"I don't know what I want." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Everything is so complicated right now. The kids, the DNA test, our history—"
"Our history is exactly why this should be easy." I heard the desperation in my own voice and couldn't stop it. "We have ten years, Elara. A decade of memories, of plans, of building something together. He has—what? A few weeks? A few dinners?"
"He has now." She said it simply, like it was obvious. "He has present tense, Michael. You have past tense."
"I'm losing you." My voice cracked, and I hated how desperate I sounded. "I'm losing you to a man you met by accident five years ago. A man who doesn't even know if those kids are his."
"Michael—"
"I was supposed to be the one, Elara. We were supposed to be the story. High school sweethearts, college romance, happily ever after. That was our plan. That was always our plan."
"Plans change." Her voice was quiet. Sad. Final.
Three words, and they landed like a death sentence.
I didn't trust myself to respond. Turned and walked away before I said something unforgivable, before I begged, before I got down on my knees and humiliated myself in that dingy hallway.
The hotel room was empty when I got back. Sienna had cleared out her things last week—she was staying with her sister, I thought, though I didn't care enough to confirm. The space felt hollow without her presence, even though I'd never wanted her presence in the first place.
I poured myself a whiskey. Then another. Sat in the dark with the curtains drawn, scrolling through old photos on my phone. Me and Elara at prom, her corsage matching my boutonniere. Our first apartment, empty except for a mattress on the floor and dreams bigger than the square footage. The anniversary trip that started everything.
The night everything changed.
I remembered fragments. The champagne, the laughter, the way Elara looked in that burgundy dress. Going back to the hotel room, finally being with her after two years of waiting. The champagne had been Sienna's idea—a special bottle to celebrate, she'd said. Something expensive. Something worth toasting to.
And then—
Static. Confusion. My body feeling wrong, heavy, like my blood had turned to syrup. I remembered wanting Elara, needing her, but everything was blurry. Disconnected. Like watching my own life through a fogged window.
I remembered stumbling into the hallway afterward, needing air. Remembering Sienna finding me, helping me to her room. Her voice soft and concerned. Her hands steady when mine weren't.
"You don't look good," she'd said. "Let me take care of you."
And she had. She'd taken care of me that night and every night after, stepping into the void Elara left behind like she'd been waiting for her moment.
But the details were fuzzy, distorted, like looking through warped glass. I'd always blamed the alcohol. Too much champagne. Too much excitement. The stupidity of youth.
Something was wrong that night. I knew it then, felt it in my bones, but I was too drunk—too something—to understand.
Too drunk? Or something else?
I set down my whiskey, a cold suspicion creeping up my spine.
Elara and I had shared the same champagne. The same drinks. And she was confused too—confused enough to sleep with a stranger thinking it was me. Confused enough to not remember clearly who was in that bed. We'd both been disoriented. Both been wrong somehow.
Two people. Same champagne. Same symptoms.
What if it wasn't the alcohol?
What if someone wanted us confused?
My mind went to Sienna. To the way she appeared exactly when I needed help, like she'd been waiting in the wings. To how quickly she stepped into Elara's place when everything fell apart. To the patient, a steady presence that had always seemed so convenient.
She'd loved me since high school. She'd told me that once, drunk on wine at our second anniversary, like it was romantic. Like I should be flattered that she'd wanted me for years while I was with her best friend.
I'd thought it was sweet at the time. Proof of her devotion. But now...
Now I remembered her hands shaking when she poured that champagne. The way she'd watched us drink it. The strange, bright look in her eyes.
The life she'd built on the wreckage of that night.
I stood up so fast I knocked over my glass. Whiskey spread across the carpet, but I didn't care. My hands were shaking as I pulled up Sienna's contact, then stopped.
What was I going to do—call her and accuse her of drugging us? Based on what? A suspicion? A feeling? Fragments of a memory from five years ago?
But the suspicion wouldn't let go. It sank its teeth into me and wouldn't release.
Sienna had been there that night. Sienna had brought the champagne. Sienna had found me in the hallway and taken me to her room. And Sienna had ended up with everything she wanted—me, the marriage, the life—while Elara fled in shame and raised three children alone.
For the first time in five years, I asked myself the question I should have asked from the beginning:
What really happened that night?
And what was my wife capable of?