Isabella didn't say a word as I made the call she was just looking at me resting on the wall.
I stood in her tiny living room—barely large enough to stretch my arms—talking to my personal assistant like we were organizing an emergency corporate takeover.
"Get the guest room ready. I want pediatric specialists waiting when we arrive," I said into the phone. "And call Dr. Ames from Zurich. I want a second opinion on Liam's condition the moment we have his medical records."
I glanced up. Isabella was standing in the hallway, arms folded, her gaze sharp enough to cut steel.
"immediately," I said, ending the call. "The car will be here."
Isabella was still looking at me as if I was performing some magic.
"You think you can snap your fingers and fix everything?" Her voice was low, tight.
"No," I replied calmly. "But I can make sure Liam has the care he needs." That's all I'm doing.
She took a step forward. "That doesn't mean you get to uproot our lives and whisk us away to your billionaire tower like some hero in a movie."
I was short of words then I met her gaze without flinching. "You're right. This isn't a movie. If it were, I wouldn't have missed the first three years of my son's life." and I'm glad it isn't a movie.
Her face faltered. That hit landed, and we both knew it.
But I didn't stop. "You've done your part, Isabella. I said touching her shoulder. You carried him. Raised him. Provided for him. Protected him. Shield him. All this while.
But now it's my turn. I'm not here to take him away from you. I'm here to stand beside you—for him." I'm here to be part of him.
Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back like she'd done it a thousand times before.
"You still don't get it," she whispered. "It's not just about money, Micheal. Liam doesn't know you. He doesn't trust strangers. He barely opens up to anyone except me."
"Then let me earn it," I said gently. "His trust. Your trust. Just give me a chance."
It just a matter of time with your help out son will be able to know me but not just knowing he will also trust me.
She hesitated. Bit her lip.
The silence between us stretched thick until Liam's weak cough echoed from the bedroom again. That sound shattered whatever wall she was trying to keep up.
She nodded slowly.
"Fine. One week," she said. "We'll come with you—for Liam's health. But that doesn't mean I'm moving in permanently. We're not your charity case. And I'm not playing house with you."
I smirked, not because any of this was funny—but because it felt like her fire hadn't dulled one bit.
"I wouldn't dare assume," I said. "But I'll make you a deal. One week. And if at the end of it you still think this is a mistake... I'll let you walk away."
She arched her brow. "You'd really do that?"
I nodded, though the words nearly killed me. "I would."
She stared at me like she was searching for cracks in my armor searching if I was still trying to play her again. But all she saw was steel.
I didn't just want my son in my life. I needed him. I need to be part of his life.
And maybe… maybe I still wanted her, too.
---
Three hours later, the black SUV pulled up outside her apartment. It looked like a spaceship had landed in the middle of a forgotten alley.
Liam was bundled in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder, eyes fluttering in exhaustion. He barely looked up as the driver opened the door.
I followed closely, helping her inside. The moment she sank into the leather seat, she clutched Liam tighter, like the world was about to shift beneath her feet, like I'm trying to separate the bond between her and her son.
And it wasn't.
Because when we pulled up to my penthouse in Manhattan, her entire body stiffened.
The doorman opened the car door like she was royalty, but Isabella looked more like a deer caught in headlights.
"This is… where you live?" she asked, stepping out and craning her neck at the glass tower stretching into the clouds.
I reached for Liam to help her, but she held him tighter.
"I've got him," she said curtly.
Of course.
We entered the private elevator, and I keyed in the code. The doors opened into a space of white marble, glass walls, and curated art.
But instead of awe, Isabella's face twisted in discomfort.
"People don't live in places like this," she muttered. "They float above and leave the rest of us and pretend we don't exist."
I didn't answer. There was truth in her words—and I'd lived it for years.
But I wasn't going to float anymore.
I led her to the guest suite, which was larger than her entire apartment. A full-time nurse was already waiting near the door, along with two pediatric specialists and a private chef preparing bland toddler-friendly meals in the kitchen.
"Everything's set up," I said. "You'll both be comfortable here."
She glanced around, then turned to me. "Comfort isn't the problem. Trust is."
I nodded slightly.
Before I could respond, the doctor stepped forward with a clipboard. "Mr. Micheal, if you could provide Liam's previous medical files, we'll run a new full workup tonight."
I looked at Isabella.
She hesitated, then slowly opened her bag and handed over a folder—dog-eared, weather-worn, and half torn with some parts missing.
It was all she had.
I saw it in her eyes—the years of doing it alone, of carrying the weight without backup.
And I hated myself for not being there.
Not playing my role for a whole three years.
"I'll take care of it," I told the doctors.
She looked away quickly, like my kindness scratched too close to her wounds.
Later that evening, after Liam fell asleep in the freshly made bed and the doctors left, I found her staring out the penthouse balcony.
City lights stretched beneath us like fireflies in the dark.
She didn't turn when I joined her.
"You still love me?" I asked softly.
Her breath hitched.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she said, "He has your eyes."
"I know."
"And your stubbornness."
I smiled. "That's all you, Bella."
We stood in silence.
Then she turned to me, her voice barely audible.
"You left me once. I don't know if I'll ever forgive you for that."
Her words met my heart like wax.
I stepped closer. "Then let me prove I won't leave again."
She swallowed hard and backed away.
"You've got a week," she whispered. "After that, we'll see."
Then she turned, walked into the guest room, and shut the door behind her.
And I stood alone on the balcony, fists clenched.
One week.
One week to fix three years of silence.
And I hadn't even told her the worst part yet.
That night in Paris…
She wasn't the only one who left with a scar.
Because someone else knew about Liam.
And they'd been watching from the shadows.