By the time she reached the corridor that led to Liam's room, the ache had settled—She paused at the door, her hand resting on the handle. It wasn't the first time her child had defied her, but it was the first time it cut so deep.
Because she knew exactly who he had gone to see.
She'd felt it the moment the city lights dimmed and something inside her chest shifted. That invisible thread between blood—tightening, tugging, fraying.
She pushed the door open and saw Liam on his bed, pretending to sleep, the glow from his small tablet hidden beneath the blanket. His breathing pattern was deliberate—too even, too practiced. Milan leaned against the doorway and watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable.
"Should I tell the ghosts to stop pretending too?" she said softly.
Liam froze, then peeked out from under the covers, wide-eyed and guilty. "I—I wasn't doing anything."
"No?" Milan's lips curved slightly. "Then the tablet must have been snoring."
He smiled sheepishly, and she crossed the room. "Scoot over," she said, standing before his bed and he did. The faint smell of soap and the sweetness of a child's warmth reached her. Her chest tightened again, but she kept her face serene.
"You missed dinner," she said.
"I wasn't hungry."
"Ah," she murmured. "And here I thought my cooking scared you away."
He giggled, relaxing under her tone. "You rarely cook."
Milan arched a brow. "Details, details."
He laughed again, a sound that melted something sharp inside her. For a few quiet minutes, she simply watched him—his eyelashes fluttering, the small rise and fall of his chest. Her hand moved on instinct, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
"Liam," she said gently, "you'll be starting school tomorrow."
His eyes flew open immediately. "School? Already?"
"Already." She tucked the blanket around him, smoothing the edges. "You need to meet other children your age. Not just your computer codes and surveillance drones."
He gave a small groan. "They're not drones—they're learning tools."
"Of course," she said dryly, "and I suppose the firewall breach last week was homework too?"
Liam looked away, caught. "Maybe."
"Mm." She let the word hang between them, light but edged. Then her voice softened again. "Sleep, little hacker.
He turned toward her, uncertain. "Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Are you mad at me?"
Milan hesitated—then shook her head. "No, Liam. Just tired."
She lay beside him, letting him rest his head against her arm. The ceiling above them glowed faintly with the soft light of the chandelier, and the night outside pressed close to the windows. Her thoughts wandered—to Ryan, to the man who had once held her the way she now held their son.
For a split second, she wondered if Ryan had looked at Liam the same way tonight—like he was both redemption and reminder.
But she would not think of him now. Not while her son breathed softly against her shoulder, his small hand curled near her heart.
Sometime before dawn, Milan fell asleep. And in the space between her waking and dreams, the ache in her chest found a quiet rhythm.
Morning came too soon.
Sunlight stretched across the balcony, warming the ivory curtains. Milan stirred first, her body clock trained by years of discipline. She watched Liam still asleep beside her, his hair in disarray, his face soft with innocence. For a moment, he looked like the child she'd fought the world for—the one she'd left everything behind to protect.
Then, carefully, she slipped out of bed, dressed in tailored black slacks and a white silk blouse, and began her morning.
By the time Liam came downstairs, rubbing his eyes, breakfast was already waiting—toast, scrambled eggs, and a glass of milk. He frowned at it. "You didn't cook this either."
Milan smiled faintly from behind her tablet. "Unfortunately for you."
They shared small talk—the kind that pretended everything was fine. He told her he didn't want to wear the school's tie; she told him rebellion was hereditary. When they finally drove to the academy, the city was bustling of street lights.
At the gate, Liam hesitated. Milan knelt to his level, brushing imaginary dust off his collar. "Be good," she said.
"I will."
"Try to make friends who don't have encryption software!"
He laughed, then leaned forward and hugged her—quickly. She didn't move for a second after he let her go, her gaze following him until he disappeared beyond the gates. Then she stood up, slid her sunglasses on, and the mask returned.
"Mi Lady?" the driver asked softly as she entered the car. "Should we return home?"
"Head to the office," she said.
The car rolled through the traffic, city life passing by in motion blur. Her phone buzzed once on the console. Dario.
She accepted the call. "Yes?"
"Lady Milan," Dario's voice was low, measured, always respectful—but there was tension in it. "Ryan is making a move again."
Her fingers tightened slightly on the phone. "Define 'move." She uttered coldly.
"He's sending someone through one of our joint trade fronts. Not subtle. It looks like a test of ground, not a strike—but he's reaching."
Milan stared out the tinted window. "Then it begins," she murmured.
"Shall I intercept?"
"Not yet," she said. "Let him reach. Let him think I'm unaware."
"Yes, ma'am."
The call ended, and silence filled the car. Milan set her phone aside, crossing one leg over the other. For a long moment, her gaze lingered on the horizon where the glass towers.
She thought of Ryan's eyes—the regret she'd seen there, the same regret that had once bound her heart to his.
Then she thought of Liam—innocent, brilliant, unknowingly standing at the middle line between two empires.
Her reflection stared back at her in the glass, composed and beautiful, but her eyes had the glint of something colder.
Love and hate, after all, were born of the same fire. And Milan Vanquez had always known how to burn.