The knock came just after midnight.
Lena was curled beside Alexander on his sofa, one leg tangled beneath a throw blanket, his arm draped lazily across her shoulders. They'd been half-watching an old Hitchcock film, half-trading sleepy kisses.
They both stilled at the sound.
One soft knock. Then another. Firmer. Hesitant.
Alexander glanced at the door, brows drawn. "I'm not expecting anyone."
Lena sat up slowly. "It's late…"
He rose and crossed to the door, peeking through the peephole.
He froze.
"Alex?" Lena stood now too, bare feet touching the cold wood floor.
When he opened the door, the girl looked about twenty. Dark curls. Pale skin. Eyes the exact shade of Alexander's.
She stood there in a hoodie, arms wrapped around herself.
"…Hi," she said softly. "I think you might be my father."
Lena didn't speak for a full minute after the door shut.
The girl — Emma — sat stiffly on the far edge of the sofa, clutching a backpack. Alexander stood near the window, silent.
Finally, Lena found her voice.
"Is it true?"
Alexander exhaled. "I… don't know."
"She said her mother's name was Natalie Fenn."
Lena's stomach dropped. "The gallery artist?"
He nodded. "We were together briefly. Nearly twenty-one years ago."
"Why didn't she ever tell you?"
"She vanished. No warning. I assumed it ended. I was twenty-two. Arrogant. I didn't follow up."
Lena turned to Emma gently. "Why now?"
"My mom passed away last month," the girl said quietly. "I found letters. Unsent. Some were to you. One… was to me."
Emma reached into her bag and handed Alexander a folded page.
His hands trembled as he opened it.
"If he's still out there, don't hate him. He never knew. I never let him."
Lena watched as Alexander closed his eyes, jaw clenched. He hadn't cried — not once during any board fight, public scandal, or company betrayal.
But now…
Now his voice broke. "I'm sorry."
Emma blinked back tears. "I don't need an apology. I just wanted to meet you once. Know if you were real."
He walked over and sat beside her, careful, slow.
"I'm real," he said. "And I'd like to know you. If you'll let me."
Later, after Emma had gone to the guest room for the night, Lena stood at the window while Alexander poured himself a drink.
"I don't know what to say," he whispered.
"You don't have to say anything."
"I feel like I lost twenty years."
"She didn't take them from you," Lena said softly. "But you get to decide what to do with the time you have now."
He looked at her, eyes raw.
"Do you still want this? Me?"
She crossed to him. Took the glass from his hand. Set it aside.
"I didn't fall in love with your past," she said. "I fell in love with the man who stood beside me through fire."
He swallowed hard. "I'm scared."
"Good," she said. "That means it's real."
She wrapped her arms around him, and for the first time in a long time, Alexander Wolfe let himself fall apart.
The next morning, Lena found Emma sitting at the breakfast bar, sketching on a napkin.
"You draw?" she asked gently.
Emma nodded, a little shy. "Mostly buildings. I like geometry. Lines."
Lena smiled and sat beside her. "Me too."
They talked for nearly an hour. About design. College. Music.
And somewhere in that quiet exchange, Lena realized:
This girl wasn't a threat.
She was family.
And maybe, just maybe, the sketch of their lives was about to grow wider than either of them had imagined.