Elara's POV
The DNA test had been submitted. Swabs taken, forms signed, samples sent to a lab somewhere in New Jersey. Now all that was left was waiting—three to five business days, the technician had said, like she was ordering a package rather than determining the course of three children's lives.
The tension was unbearable. I could feel it everywhere—in Aiden's careful restraint, in Michael's desperate intensity, in the way my own heart pounded every time my phone buzzed. I was walking a tightrope over a chasm, and I didn't know which side I'd land on.
Michael texted me Thursday afternoon. "Can we talk? Just us. Somewhere private. I need to see you."
I should have said no. Every instinct screamed to keep my distance, to wait for the results, to stop making things more complicated than they already were. But there was something in his message that sounded different. Urgent. Almost frightened.
And despite everything, part of me still owed him an explanation. The boy he'd been. The history we shared. The decade of memories I'd thrown away without warning.
I agreed to meet him at his hotel suite. Private. Quiet. Probably a mistake.
He opened the door before I could knock, like he'd been waiting by it. The suite was expensive—all cream furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city—but Michael looked like he hadn't slept in days. Dark circles carved shadows under his eyes. His shirt was rumpled, half-untucked. Something wild moved behind his gaze.
"Thank you for coming." He stepped aside to let me in. "I wasn't sure you would."
I stayed near the door, keeping my bag on my shoulder. Ready to leave if I needed to. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Us." He moved closer, and I took an instinctive step back. "I've been thinking about us. About what we could have been. About what we still could be."
"Michael, there is no 'us' anymore—"
"Don't say that." His voice sharpened like a blade. "Don't stand there and pretend like everything we had meant nothing."
"I'm not pretending anything. I'm being realistic."
"Realistic?" He laughed, harsh and broken. "You want to talk about realistic? Let's talk about how you disappeared without a word. How you had three children and never told me. How you let me believe I did something wrong for FIVE YEARS."
"I couldn't tell you—"
"Why?" His voice rose, bouncing off the expensive walls. "Because you were scared? Because it was hard? Do you have any idea what I went through? I searched for you for MONTHS. I blamed myself. I nearly destroyed myself trying to figure out what I did wrong."
"You didn't do anything wrong!" I was shouting now too, matching his intensity. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. It wasn't about you—it was about me. About what I did. About waking up next to a stranger and not being able to live with myself."
"So you ran. You ran and you hid and you had THREE CHILDREN without letting me be part of it—"
"You weren't part of it because you COULDN'T be part of it!" Tears were streaming down my face now, hot and angry. "I didn't know if those babies were yours or some stranger's. How was I supposed to come to you with that? How was I supposed to look you in the eye and say 'I might have cheated on you but I don't remember'?"
"You could have TRIED." He was in my space now, close enough that I could see the vein pulsing in his temple. "You could have given me a chance instead of making the choice for both of us."
"I made the only choice I could live with!"
"And what about ME? What about what I could live with?"
We were inches apart, both breathing hard, the air between us crackling with five years of grief and rage and something else—something dangerous. I saw his eyes drop to my mouth. Felt the shift in his body, the tension transforming into something different.
"I never stopped loving you." His voice was rough, barely controlled. "Not for a single day."
"Michael—"
He kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, hungry, fueled by years of longing and loss. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me against him, and I gasped into his mouth. For one reckless moment, my body responded—muscle memory, old patterns, the ghost of the girl I used to be. My fingers curled into his shirt. I kissed him back.
He groaned against my lips, deepening the kiss, one hand sliding up my back, the other tangling in my hair. He walked me backward until I hit the wall, pressing his body against mine, and I felt the heat of him, the need radiating off him in waves.
But it was wrong. It was all wrong.
I wasn't thinking about Michael. I was thinking about Aiden—his patience, his kindness, the way he'd looked at me on my couch with his heart in his eyes. The way he'd held Oliver during the nightmare. The way he'd said "I'm here because of you. Just you."
I pushed against Michael's chest. "Stop."
He didn't stop. Tried to kiss me again, his grip tightening on my waist. "You still feel it. I know you do."
"I said STOP." I shoved harder, enough to create real space between us. "I can't do this."
"Why?" He was panting, eyes wild with desperation. "Because of HIM? You've known Wolfe for weeks. You've known me your whole LIFE."
"It's not about how long—"
"It's exactly about that." He reached for me again, caught my wrist. "We have history, Elara. We have a foundation. Whatever you think you feel for him, it's not real. It's just—"
"Let go of me."
Something in my voice finally cut through. He released my wrist like it burned him, stepping back, chest heaving.
"I can't do this to Aiden," I said, my voice shaking. "Or to Sienna. Or to myself. This isn't who I am, Michael. Not anymore."
"Sienna?" He laughed bitterly. "You think I give a damn about Sienna?"
"You should. She's your wife."
"She was never—" He stopped himself, ran a hand through his hair. Something flickered in his eyes—not grief, but suspicion. A darkness I didn't understand. "This isn't over, Elara."
"Yes. It is." I grabbed my bag from where it had fallen, moved toward the door. "Don't contact me again. Not like this."
"Elara—"
I walked out before he could finish.
The hallway was silent, sterile, smelling of nothing. I made it to the elevator before my legs gave out. Slumped against the wall, gasping for breath, tears streaming down my face.
I'd kissed him back. For a moment—just a moment—I'd kissed him back. Let his hands grip me, let his body press against mine, let the ghost of our old love rise up and take over.
I'd betrayed Aiden. Even if it was only for a few seconds, even if I'd stopped it before it went further—I'd betrayed him.
My phone buzzed. Aiden's name lit up the screen.
"Everything okay? You left work early."
I stared at the message until the screen went dark. Read it again. Stared some more.
I had to tell him. I had to tell him what happened before someone else did, before this became another secret eating me alive. He deserved honesty. He'd given me nothing but patience and kindness and unconditional support.
I owed him the truth. At least this time.
Even if it destroyed everything.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside, pressed the button for the lobby, and watched my reflection in the polished doors—mascara-streaked, swollen-lipped, looking like exactly what I was.
A woman who kept making the same mistakes.
But not this time. This time, I was going to be honest.
Whatever it cost.